 | The complete works of N.P. Willis |  |
THE LADY JANE, AND OTHER POEMS.
THE LADY JANE,
A NOVEL IN RHYME.
I.
There was a lady fair, and forty too.
There was a youth of scarcely two and twenty.
The story of their loves is strange, yet true.
I'll tell it you! Romances are so plenty
In prose, that you'll be glad of something new.
And so (in rhyme) for “what the devil meant he!”
You think he was too young! — but tell me whether
The moth and humming-bird grow old together!
II.
Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily,
Not of one warp and woof hath made us all!
Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly,
And wear and tear make difference — not small;
And he that hath no money — will-he, nill-he —
Is thrust like an old man against the wall!
Grief out of some the very life-blood washes;
Some shed it like ducks' backs and “Mackintoshes.”
III.
The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl —
Shut from approach like sea-nymph in her shell
Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl
Upon her marble temple, and naught fell
Upon the ear of the patrician girl
But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well
Her suitors were her father's and not hers —
So were her debts at “Storr-and-Mortimer's.”
IV.
Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot,
Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek,
Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet
Of one by suffering made sweet and meek.
She ate and drank, and probably lived by it,
And liked her cup of tea by no means weak!
Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction,
Her pulse beat with extremely little friction.
V.
Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye,
And room for pressure on her lip of rose;
And few who saw her gracefully move by,
Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze.
You may have seen the cunning florist tie
A thread about a bud, which never blows,
But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain,
Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady Jane.
VI.
The old Lord had had offers for her hand,
The which he answer'd — by his secretary.
And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land,
The men being old and valetudinary;
But there were others who were all unmann'd,
And fell into a life of wild vagary,
In their despair. To tell his daughter of it,
The cold Earl thought, would be but little profit.
VII.
And so she bloom'd — all fenced around with care;
And none could find a way to win or woo her.
When visible at home — the Earl was there!
Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her!
She was a sort of nun in open air,
Known to but few, and intimate with fewer:
And, always used to conversation guarded,
She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did
VIII.
Pause while you read, oh, Broadway demoiselle!
And bless your stars that long before you marry,
You are a judge of passion pleaded well!
For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry,
And, if kind Heaven endow'd you for a belle,
At least your destiny did not miscarry!
“You've had your fling” — and now, all wise and steady,
For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready!
IX.
And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair!
And “ignorance is bliss” in teaching love!
And guarding lips, when others have been there,
Is apt uneasy reveries to move!
I really think mammas should have a care!
And though of nunneries I disapprove,
'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason
Than to unteach a “Saratoga Season.”
X.
In France, where, it is said, they wiser are,
Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin;
And when she is abroad from bolt and bar,
A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen;
And so at last, like a high-priced attar
Hemetically seal'd in silk and resin,
She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her;
And then — with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir!
XI.
I know this does not work well, and that ours
Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses,
Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers,
For having bloom'd, though not in your green-houses.
'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers.
And where I live, the milking of the cows is
Too rude a task for females! Well. 'Twould hurt you,
Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue.
XII.
“Free-born Americans,” they must have freedom!
They'll stay — if they have leave to run away.
They're ministering angels when you need 'em,
But 'specially want credit in Broadway.
French wives are more particular how you feed 'em.
The English drag you oftener to the play.
But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) —
With “heav'n-born liberty,” and trust — or money!
There was a lady fair, and forty too.
There was a youth of scarcely two and twenty.
The story of their loves is strange, yet true.
I'll tell it you! Romances are so plenty
In prose, that you'll be glad of something new.
And so (in rhyme) for “what the devil meant he!”
You think he was too young! — but tell me whether
The moth and humming-bird grow old together!
II.
Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily,
Not of one warp and woof hath made us all!
Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly,
And wear and tear make difference — not small;
And he that hath no money — will-he, nill-he —
Is thrust like an old man against the wall!
Grief out of some the very life-blood washes;
Some shed it like ducks' backs and “Mackintoshes.”
III.
The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl —
Shut from approach like sea-nymph in her shell
Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl
Upon her marble temple, and naught fell
Upon the ear of the patrician girl
But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well
Her suitors were her father's and not hers —
So were her debts at “Storr-and-Mortimer's.”
IV.
Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot,
Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek,
Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet
Of one by suffering made sweet and meek.
She ate and drank, and probably lived by it,
And liked her cup of tea by no means weak!
Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction,
Her pulse beat with extremely little friction.
V.
Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye,
And room for pressure on her lip of rose;
And few who saw her gracefully move by,
Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze.
You may have seen the cunning florist tie
A thread about a bud, which never blows,
But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain,
Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady Jane.
VI.
The old Lord had had offers for her hand,
The which he answer'd — by his secretary.
And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land,
The men being old and valetudinary;
But there were others who were all unmann'd,
And fell into a life of wild vagary,
In their despair. To tell his daughter of it,
The cold Earl thought, would be but little profit.
VII.
And so she bloom'd — all fenced around with care;
And none could find a way to win or woo her.
When visible at home — the Earl was there!
Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her!
She was a sort of nun in open air,
Known to but few, and intimate with fewer:
And, always used to conversation guarded,
She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did
VIII.
Pause while you read, oh, Broadway demoiselle!
And bless your stars that long before you marry,
You are a judge of passion pleaded well!
For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry,
And, if kind Heaven endow'd you for a belle,
At least your destiny did not miscarry!
“You've had your fling” — and now, all wise and steady,
For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready!
IX.
And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair!
And “ignorance is bliss” in teaching love!
And guarding lips, when others have been there,
Is apt uneasy reveries to move!
I really think mammas should have a care!
And though of nunneries I disapprove,
'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason
Than to unteach a “Saratoga Season.”
X.
In France, where, it is said, they wiser are,
Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin;
And when she is abroad from bolt and bar,
A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen;
And so at last, like a high-priced attar
Hemetically seal'd in silk and resin,
She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her;
And then — with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir!
XI.
I know this does not work well, and that ours
Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses,
Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers,
For having bloom'd, though not in your green-houses.
'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers.
And where I live, the milking of the cows is
Too rude a task for females! Well. 'Twould hurt you,
Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue.
XII.
“Free-born Americans,” they must have freedom!
They'll stay — if they have leave to run away.
They're ministering angels when you need 'em,
But 'specially want credit in Broadway.
French wives are more particular how you feed 'em.
The English drag you oftener to the play.
But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) —
With “heav'n-born liberty,” and trust — or money!
850
XIII.
Upon her thirtieth birth-day, Lady Jane
Thought sadly on the twenties! Ev'n the 'teens,
That she had said farewell to, without pain —
Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means —
Seem'd worth re-gathering to live again;
But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans
After the careful Harvester of years: —
The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears!
XIV.
She glided to her mirror. From the air
Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes,
A semblance sad, but beautifully fair;
And gradually there stole a sweet surprise
Under her lids, and as she laid the hair
Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise,
“Time, after all,” she said, “a harmless flirt is!”
And from that hour took kindly to her thirties.
XV.
And, with his honors not at all unsteady,
The Decimal elect stept coolly in;
And having all his nights and mornings ready,
He'd very little trouble to begin.
And Twenty was quite popular, — they said he
Went out of office with so little din!
The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he)
Her birth-days more. And like a dream came Forty.
XVI.
And on the morn of it she stood to dress,
Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before,
And lifted with a smile the raven tress,
That darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor.
Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness!
“Yet is it time,” she said, “that I give o'er —
I'm an old maid! — and tho' I suffer by it, I
Must change my style and leave off gay society.”
XVII.
And so she did. Her maid by her desire
Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears;
She had her dresses alter'd to come higher,
Tho' it dissolved the dress-maker in tears!
And flung a new French hat into the fire,
Which she had bought, “forgetful of her years.”
This t' anticipate “the world's dread laugh!”
Most persons think too much of it, by half.
XVIII.
I do not mean to say that generally
The “virtuous single” take too soon to tea;
But now and then you find one who could rally
At forty, and go back to twenty-three —
A handsome, plump, affectionate “Aunt Sally,”
With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea!
And I would have her, spite of “he or she says,”
Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases.
XIX.
Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat —
Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare.
Some like a lameness. (I have known one that
Would go quite far enough for your despair,
And halt in time.) Some like them delicate
As lilies, and with some “the only wear”
Is one whose sex has spoiled a midshipman.
Some only like what pleased another man.
XX.
I like one that likes me. But there's a kind
Of women, very dangerous to poets,
Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind —
A nature that, tho' passionate, will show its
Devotion by not being rash or blind;
But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's
Not odd if they are counted cold, tho' handsome,
And never meet a man who understands 'em.
XXI.
By never I mean late in life. But ah!
How exquisite their love and friendship then!
Perennial of soul such women are,
And readers of the hearts of gifted men;
And as the deep well mourns the hidden star,
And mirrors the first ray that beams again,
They — be the lov'd light lost or dimly burning,
Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning.
XXII.
In outward seeming tranquil and subdued,
Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast.
Time and imprison'd love make not a prude;
And warm the gift we know to be the last;
And pure is the devotion that must brood
Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past!
Trust me, “a rising man” rose seldom higher,
But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire.
XXIII.
The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers
Was quite the character I've drawn above.
Old maids, like young, have various calibres,
And hers was moderate, tho' she was “a love,”)
The Lady Jane call'd on the Dowagers —
Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve,
But partly with a docile wish to know
What solaces of age were comme il faut.
XXIV.
They stared at her plain hat and air demure,
But answered her with some particularity;
And she was edified you may be sure,
And added vastly to her popularity.
She found a dozen mad on furniture,
Five on embroidery, and none on charity;
But her last call — the others were but short ones —
Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance.
XXV.
The door was open'd by a Spanish page —
A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons,
Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage,
And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once,
Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age,
His eyes (you would have liked to see them shut once,
The fringes were so long — ) on Lady Jane.
The varlet clearly thought her not so plain.
XXVI.
And bounding up the flower-laden stair,
He waited her ascent, then open flung
A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air,
Which on its silver hinge with music swung —
Contrived, that never foot should enter there
Unheralded by that melodious tongue.
This delicate alarum is worth while
More 'specially with carpets of three-pile.
XXVII.
Beyond a gallery extended, cool,
And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor,
Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school;
Each “worth a Jew's eye” — very likely more;
And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul,
Closed the extremity in lieu of door.
This the page lifted, and disclosed to view
The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu.
XXVIII.
It was a small pavilion lined with pink, —
Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-light,
The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think
How juvenescent is a rosy high light!)
Upon the table were seen pen and ink,
(Two things I cannot say have stood in my light)
Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans;
The table in the style of Louis Quinze.
Upon her thirtieth birth-day, Lady Jane
Thought sadly on the twenties! Ev'n the 'teens,
That she had said farewell to, without pain —
Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means —
Seem'd worth re-gathering to live again;
But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans
After the careful Harvester of years: —
The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears!
XIV.
She glided to her mirror. From the air
Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes,
A semblance sad, but beautifully fair;
And gradually there stole a sweet surprise
Under her lids, and as she laid the hair
Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise,
“Time, after all,” she said, “a harmless flirt is!”
And from that hour took kindly to her thirties.
XV.
And, with his honors not at all unsteady,
The Decimal elect stept coolly in;
And having all his nights and mornings ready,
He'd very little trouble to begin.
And Twenty was quite popular, — they said he
Went out of office with so little din!
The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he)
Her birth-days more. And like a dream came Forty.
XVI.
And on the morn of it she stood to dress,
Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before,
And lifted with a smile the raven tress,
That darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor.
Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness!
“Yet is it time,” she said, “that I give o'er —
I'm an old maid! — and tho' I suffer by it, I
Must change my style and leave off gay society.”
XVII.
And so she did. Her maid by her desire
Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears;
She had her dresses alter'd to come higher,
Tho' it dissolved the dress-maker in tears!
And flung a new French hat into the fire,
Which she had bought, “forgetful of her years.”
This t' anticipate “the world's dread laugh!”
Most persons think too much of it, by half.
XVIII.
I do not mean to say that generally
The “virtuous single” take too soon to tea;
But now and then you find one who could rally
At forty, and go back to twenty-three —
A handsome, plump, affectionate “Aunt Sally,”
With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea!
And I would have her, spite of “he or she says,”
Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases.
XIX.
Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat —
Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare.
Some like a lameness. (I have known one that
Would go quite far enough for your despair,
And halt in time.) Some like them delicate
As lilies, and with some “the only wear”
Is one whose sex has spoiled a midshipman.
Some only like what pleased another man.
XX.
I like one that likes me. But there's a kind
Of women, very dangerous to poets,
Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind —
A nature that, tho' passionate, will show its
Devotion by not being rash or blind;
But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's
Not odd if they are counted cold, tho' handsome,
And never meet a man who understands 'em.
XXI.
By never I mean late in life. But ah!
How exquisite their love and friendship then!
Perennial of soul such women are,
And readers of the hearts of gifted men;
And as the deep well mourns the hidden star,
And mirrors the first ray that beams again,
They — be the lov'd light lost or dimly burning,
Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning.
XXII.
In outward seeming tranquil and subdued,
Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast.
Time and imprison'd love make not a prude;
And warm the gift we know to be the last;
And pure is the devotion that must brood
Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past!
Trust me, “a rising man” rose seldom higher,
But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire.
XXIII.
The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers
Was quite the character I've drawn above.
Old maids, like young, have various calibres,
And hers was moderate, tho' she was “a love,”)
The Lady Jane call'd on the Dowagers —
Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve,
But partly with a docile wish to know
What solaces of age were comme il faut.
XXIV.
They stared at her plain hat and air demure,
But answered her with some particularity;
And she was edified you may be sure,
And added vastly to her popularity.
She found a dozen mad on furniture,
Five on embroidery, and none on charity;
But her last call — the others were but short ones —
Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance.
XXV.
The door was open'd by a Spanish page —
A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons,
Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage,
And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once,
Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age,
His eyes (you would have liked to see them shut once,
The fringes were so long — ) on Lady Jane.
The varlet clearly thought her not so plain.
XXVI.
And bounding up the flower-laden stair,
He waited her ascent, then open flung
A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air,
Which on its silver hinge with music swung —
Contrived, that never foot should enter there
Unheralded by that melodious tongue.
This delicate alarum is worth while
More 'specially with carpets of three-pile.
XXVII.
Beyond a gallery extended, cool,
And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor,
Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school;
Each “worth a Jew's eye” — very likely more;
And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul,
Closed the extremity in lieu of door.
This the page lifted, and disclosed to view
The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu.
XXVIII.
It was a small pavilion lined with pink, —
Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-light,
The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think
How juvenescent is a rosy high light!)
Upon the table were seen pen and ink,
(Two things I cannot say have stood in my light)
Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans;
The table in the style of Louis Quinze.
851
XXIX.
A singular and fragile little creature
Upon the cushions indolently lay,
With waning life in each transparent feature,
But youth in her bright lips' etherial play;
In short, the kind of creature that would meet your
Conception of a transmigrating fay —
The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary,
Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri!
XXX.
The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones
Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear;
Tho' voice is not a thing of flesh and bones,
And probably goes up when they stay here.
(I do not know how much of Smith and Jones
Will bear translating to “the better sphere,”
But ladies, certainly, when they shall climb to't,
Will get their dimples back — tho' not the rhyme to't.)
XXXI.
Her person was dress'd very like her soul —
In fine material most loosely worn.
A cobweb cashmere struggled to control
Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn,
And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole
The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn.
You would not guess her age by looking at her,
Nor, from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter.
XXXII.
“My dear!” the Countess said, (by this time she
Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer —
He gets it, in these morning calls, pardie!
And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer
Her errand — somewhat delicate, you see,)
“My dear, how very odd! I fear I am a
“Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bonnet?)
“Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it!
XXXIII.
“Time has no business in one's house, my dear!
“I'm not at home to any of my creditors.
“They send their nasty bills in, once a year,
“And Time's are like Mortality's — mere `dead letters.'
“Besides, what comfort is there living here,
“If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us?
“(Lend me a pin, dear!) Time at last will stop us,
“But, come to that — we're free by habeas corpus.
XXXIV
(“Fie, what a naughty shawl! No exposé,
“I trust, love, eh? Hold there, thou virtuous pin!)
“And so you really have come out to-day
“To look you up some suitable new sin!”
“Oh, Countess!” “Did you never write a play?
“Nor novel? Well, you really should begin!
“For, (hark, my dear!) the publishers are biters,
“Not at the book's fine title — but the writer's.
XXXV.
“You're half an authoress; for, as my maid says,
“`Begun's half done,' and you've your title writ.
“I quote from Colburn, and as what `the trade' says
“Is paid for, it is well consider'd wit.
“Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is,
“But as to us, we do not need a bit.
“`Three volumes,' says the bargain, `not too thin.'
“You don't suppose I'd throw him genius in!”
XXXVI.
“But fame, dear Countess!” At the word there flush'd
A color to her cheek like fever's glow,
And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd
The fringes of her shawl, and bending low
To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd
Into her large, dark eyes, she murmur'd “No!
“Th' inglorious agony of conquering pain
“Has drunk that dream up. I have lived in vain!
XXXVII.
“Yet have I set my soul upon the string,
“Tense with the energy of high desire,
“And trembled, with the arrow's quivering spring,
“To launch upon ambition's flight of fire!
“And never lark so hush'd his heart to sing,
“Or, as he sang, nerved wing to bear it higher,
“As I have striven my wild heart to tame
“And melt its love, pride, passion — into fame!
XXXVIII.
“Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine
“For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain,
“Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wine,
“Crept thro' the chambers of a throbbing brain.
“Worthily, have I never written line!
“And when they talk to me of fame I gain,
“In very bitterness of soul I mock it, —
“And put the nett proceeds into my pocket!
XXXIX.
“And so, my dear, — let not the market vary, —
“I bid the critics, pro and con, defiance;
“And then I'm fond of being literary,
“And have a tenderness for `sucking lions.'
“My friend the Dutchess has a fancy dairy: —
“Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science —
“It comes to the samething. But, truce to mocking —
“Suppose you try my color in a stocking!”
XL.
I need not state the ratiocination
By which the Lady Jane had so decided —
Not quite upon the regular vocation —
Of course you knew she was too rich, (or I did,)
To care with Costard for “remuneration;”
But feeling that her life like Lethe glided,
She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a
Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara.
XLI.
“Well, Countess! what shall be my premier pas?
“Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners?
“Or would a `sucking lion' stoop so far
“As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse?
“I cannot shine — but I can see a star —
“Are there not worshippers as well as shiners?
“I will be ruled implicitly by you: —
“My stocking's innocent — how dye it blue?
XLII.
The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing: —
“I've several that I might make you over,
“And not be inconsolable at losing;
“But, really, as you've neither spouse nor lover,
“'Most any of my pets would be amusing,
“Particularly if you're not above a
“Discreet flirtation. Are you? How's the Earl?
“Does he still treat you like a little girl?
XLIII.
“How do you see your visitors? Alone?
“Does the Earl sleep at table after dinner?
“Have you had many lovers? Dear me! None?
“Was not your father something of a sinner?
“Who is the nicest man you've ever known?
“Pray does the butler bring your letters in, or
“First take them to the Earl? Is he not rather
“A surly dog? — the butler, not your father.”
XLIV.
To these inquiries the Lady Jane
Replied with nods, or something as laconic,
For on the Countess rattled, might and main,
With a rapidity Napoleonic;
Then mused and said, “'Twill never do, it's plain —
“The poet must be warranted Platonic!
“But, query — how to find you such an oddity?
“My dear, they all make love! — it's their commodity!
A singular and fragile little creature
Upon the cushions indolently lay,
With waning life in each transparent feature,
But youth in her bright lips' etherial play;
In short, the kind of creature that would meet your
Conception of a transmigrating fay —
The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary,
Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri!
XXX.
The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones
Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear;
Tho' voice is not a thing of flesh and bones,
And probably goes up when they stay here.
(I do not know how much of Smith and Jones
Will bear translating to “the better sphere,”
But ladies, certainly, when they shall climb to't,
Will get their dimples back — tho' not the rhyme to't.)
XXXI.
Her person was dress'd very like her soul —
In fine material most loosely worn.
A cobweb cashmere struggled to control
Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn,
And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole
The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn.
You would not guess her age by looking at her,
Nor, from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter.
XXXII.
“My dear!” the Countess said, (by this time she
Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer —
He gets it, in these morning calls, pardie!
And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer
Her errand — somewhat delicate, you see,)
“My dear, how very odd! I fear I am a
“Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bonnet?)
“Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it!
XXXIII.
“Time has no business in one's house, my dear!
“I'm not at home to any of my creditors.
“They send their nasty bills in, once a year,
“And Time's are like Mortality's — mere `dead letters.'
“Besides, what comfort is there living here,
“If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us?
“(Lend me a pin, dear!) Time at last will stop us,
“But, come to that — we're free by habeas corpus.
XXXIV
(“Fie, what a naughty shawl! No exposé,
“I trust, love, eh? Hold there, thou virtuous pin!)
“And so you really have come out to-day
“To look you up some suitable new sin!”
“Oh, Countess!” “Did you never write a play?
“Nor novel? Well, you really should begin!
“For, (hark, my dear!) the publishers are biters,
“Not at the book's fine title — but the writer's.
XXXV.
“You're half an authoress; for, as my maid says,
“`Begun's half done,' and you've your title writ.
“I quote from Colburn, and as what `the trade' says
“Is paid for, it is well consider'd wit.
“Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is,
“But as to us, we do not need a bit.
“`Three volumes,' says the bargain, `not too thin.'
“You don't suppose I'd throw him genius in!”
XXXVI.
“But fame, dear Countess!” At the word there flush'd
A color to her cheek like fever's glow,
And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd
The fringes of her shawl, and bending low
To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd
Into her large, dark eyes, she murmur'd “No!
“Th' inglorious agony of conquering pain
“Has drunk that dream up. I have lived in vain!
XXXVII.
“Yet have I set my soul upon the string,
“Tense with the energy of high desire,
“And trembled, with the arrow's quivering spring,
“To launch upon ambition's flight of fire!
“And never lark so hush'd his heart to sing,
“Or, as he sang, nerved wing to bear it higher,
“As I have striven my wild heart to tame
“And melt its love, pride, passion — into fame!
XXXVIII.
“Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine
“For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain,
“Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wine,
“Crept thro' the chambers of a throbbing brain.
“Worthily, have I never written line!
“And when they talk to me of fame I gain,
“In very bitterness of soul I mock it, —
“And put the nett proceeds into my pocket!
XXXIX.
“And so, my dear, — let not the market vary, —
“I bid the critics, pro and con, defiance;
“And then I'm fond of being literary,
“And have a tenderness for `sucking lions.'
“My friend the Dutchess has a fancy dairy: —
“Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science —
“It comes to the samething. But, truce to mocking —
“Suppose you try my color in a stocking!”
XL.
I need not state the ratiocination
By which the Lady Jane had so decided —
Not quite upon the regular vocation —
Of course you knew she was too rich, (or I did,)
To care with Costard for “remuneration;”
But feeling that her life like Lethe glided,
She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a
Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara.
XLI.
“Well, Countess! what shall be my premier pas?
“Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners?
“Or would a `sucking lion' stoop so far
“As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse?
“I cannot shine — but I can see a star —
“Are there not worshippers as well as shiners?
“I will be ruled implicitly by you: —
“My stocking's innocent — how dye it blue?
XLII.
The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing: —
“I've several that I might make you over,
“And not be inconsolable at losing;
“But, really, as you've neither spouse nor lover,
“'Most any of my pets would be amusing,
“Particularly if you're not above a
“Discreet flirtation. Are you? How's the Earl?
“Does he still treat you like a little girl?
XLIII.
“How do you see your visitors? Alone?
“Does the Earl sleep at table after dinner?
“Have you had many lovers? Dear me! None?
“Was not your father something of a sinner?
“Who is the nicest man you've ever known?
“Pray does the butler bring your letters in, or
“First take them to the Earl? Is he not rather
“A surly dog? — the butler, not your father.”
XLIV.
To these inquiries the Lady Jane
Replied with nods, or something as laconic,
For on the Countess rattled, might and main,
With a rapidity Napoleonic;
Then mused and said, “'Twill never do, it's plain —
“The poet must be warranted Platonic!
“But, query — how to find you such an oddity?
“My dear, they all make love! — it's their commodity!
852
XLV.
“The poet's on the look-out for a scene —
“The painter for a `novel situation;'
“And either does much business between
“The little pauses of a declaration —
“Noting the way in which you sob, or lean,
“Or use your handkerchief in agitation.
“I've known one — making love like Roderick Random —
“Get off his knees and make a memorandum!
XLVI.
“You see they're always ready for their trade,
“And have a speech as pat as a town-crier;
“And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid
“To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire.
“I knew a most respectable old maid
“A dramatist made love to — just to try her!
“She hung herself, of course — but in that way
“He got some pretty touches for his play.
XLVII.
“How shall we manage it? I say with tears,
“I've only two that are not rogues at bottom;
“And one of these would soon be `over ears'
“In love with you, — but that he hasn't got 'em!
“They were cut off by the New Zealanders —
“(As he invariably adds) `'od-rot-'em!'
“(Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet,
“(He wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,)
XLVIII.
“In his ideas, I mean. (I really am at a
“Stand-still about you.) Well — this man, one day,
“Took in his head to own the earth's diameter,
“From zenith thro' to nadir! (They do say
“He kill'd his wife — or threw a ham at her —
“Or something — so he had to go away —
“That's neither here nor there.) His name is Wieland,
“And under him exactly lies New Zealand.
XLIX.
“I am not certain if his `seat' 's, or no,
“In the Low Countries. But the sky above it
“Of course is his; and for some way below
“He has a right to dig and to improve it;
“But under him, a million miles or so,
“Lies land that's not his, — and the law can't move it.
“It cut poor Wieland's nadir off, no doubt —
“And so he sailed to buy the owner out.
L.
“I never quite made out the calculation —
“But plump against his cellar floor, bin 2,
“He found a tribe had built their habitation,
“Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo.
“They would sell out — but, to his consternation,
“They charged him — all the fattest of his crew!
“At last they caught and roasted every one —
“But he escaped by being under-done!”
LI.
That such a lion was well worth his feed,
Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane;
But, that he answer'd to her present need,
(A literary pet,) was not so plain.
She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed,
Or turn it over and so call again.
However, as her friend had mention'd two,
Perhaps the other might be made to do.
LII.
“I'm looking,” said the Countess, “for a letter
“From my old playmate, Isabella Gray.
“'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her;
“She ran away and married one fine day —
“Poor girl! She might have done a great deal better!
“The boy that she has sent to me, they say,
“Is handsome, and has talents very striking.
“So young, too — you can spoil him to your liking.
LIII.
“Her letter will amuse you. You must know
“That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her
“Securely up in an old French chateau;
“Where, with her children and no woman but her,
“He plays the old-school gentleman; and so
“Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter.
“She thinks I may be changed by time — for, may be,
“I've lost a tooth or got another baby.
LIV.
“Heigho! — 'tis evident we're made of clay,
“And harden unless kept in tears and shade;
“This fashionable sunshine dries away
“Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid!
“I wonder what my guardian angels say
“About the sort of woman I have made!
“I wish I could begin my life again!
“What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane?”
LV.
The Countess, all this while, was running over
The pages of a letter, closely cross'd: —
“I wish,” she said, my most devoted lover
“Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost!
“Though some of it is quite a flight above a
“Sane woman's comprehension. Tut! Where was't!
“There is a passage here — the name's Beaulevres —
“His chateau's in the neighborhood of Sevres
LVI.
“The boy's called Jules. Ah, here it is! My child
Brings you this letter. I've not much to say
More than you know of him, if he has smiled
When you have seen him. In his features play
The light from which his soul has been beguiled —
The blessed Heaven I lose with him to-day.
I ask you not to love him — he is there!
And you have loved him — without wish or prayer!
LVII.
His father sends him forth for fame and gold —
An angel, on this errand! I have striven
Against it — but he is not mine to hold,
They say 'tis wrong to wish to stay him, even,
And that my pride 's poor — my ambition cold!
Alas! to get him only back to Heaven
Is my one passionate prayer! Think me not wild —
'Tis that I have an angel for my child!
LVIII.
They say that he has genius. I but see
That he gets wisdom as the flow'r gets hue,
While others hive it like the toiling bee;
That, with him, all things beautiful keep new,
And every morn the first morn seems to be —
So freshly look abroad his eyes of blue!
What he has written seems to me no more
Than I have thought a thousand times before!
LIX.
Yet not upon his gay career to Fame
Broods my foreboding tear. I wish it won —
My prayer speeds on his spirit to its aim —
But in his chamber wait I for my son! —
When darken'd is ambition's star of fame —
When the night's fever of unrest is on —
With the unbidden sadness, the sharp care,
I fly from his bright hours, to meet him there!
LX.
Forgive me if I prate! Is't much — is't wild —
To hope — to pray — that you will sometimes creep
To the dream-haunted pillow of my child,
Keeping sweet watch above his fitful sleep?
Blest like his mother, if in dream he smiled,
Or, if he wept, still blest with him to weep;
Rewarded — Oh, for how much more than this! —
By his awaking smile — his morning kiss!
“The poet's on the look-out for a scene —
“The painter for a `novel situation;'
“And either does much business between
“The little pauses of a declaration —
“Noting the way in which you sob, or lean,
“Or use your handkerchief in agitation.
“I've known one — making love like Roderick Random —
“Get off his knees and make a memorandum!
XLVI.
“You see they're always ready for their trade,
“And have a speech as pat as a town-crier;
“And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid
“To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire.
“I knew a most respectable old maid
“A dramatist made love to — just to try her!
“She hung herself, of course — but in that way
“He got some pretty touches for his play.
XLVII.
“How shall we manage it? I say with tears,
“I've only two that are not rogues at bottom;
“And one of these would soon be `over ears'
“In love with you, — but that he hasn't got 'em!
“They were cut off by the New Zealanders —
“(As he invariably adds) `'od-rot-'em!'
“(Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet,
“(He wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,)
XLVIII.
“In his ideas, I mean. (I really am at a
“Stand-still about you.) Well — this man, one day,
“Took in his head to own the earth's diameter,
“From zenith thro' to nadir! (They do say
“He kill'd his wife — or threw a ham at her —
“Or something — so he had to go away —
“That's neither here nor there.) His name is Wieland,
“And under him exactly lies New Zealand.
XLIX.
“I am not certain if his `seat' 's, or no,
“In the Low Countries. But the sky above it
“Of course is his; and for some way below
“He has a right to dig and to improve it;
“But under him, a million miles or so,
“Lies land that's not his, — and the law can't move it.
“It cut poor Wieland's nadir off, no doubt —
“And so he sailed to buy the owner out.
L.
“I never quite made out the calculation —
“But plump against his cellar floor, bin 2,
“He found a tribe had built their habitation,
“Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo.
“They would sell out — but, to his consternation,
“They charged him — all the fattest of his crew!
“At last they caught and roasted every one —
“But he escaped by being under-done!”
LI.
That such a lion was well worth his feed,
Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane;
But, that he answer'd to her present need,
(A literary pet,) was not so plain.
She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed,
Or turn it over and so call again.
However, as her friend had mention'd two,
Perhaps the other might be made to do.
LII.
“I'm looking,” said the Countess, “for a letter
“From my old playmate, Isabella Gray.
“'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her;
“She ran away and married one fine day —
“Poor girl! She might have done a great deal better!
“The boy that she has sent to me, they say,
“Is handsome, and has talents very striking.
“So young, too — you can spoil him to your liking.
LIII.
“Her letter will amuse you. You must know
“That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her
“Securely up in an old French chateau;
“Where, with her children and no woman but her,
“He plays the old-school gentleman; and so
“Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter.
“She thinks I may be changed by time — for, may be,
“I've lost a tooth or got another baby.
LIV.
“Heigho! — 'tis evident we're made of clay,
“And harden unless kept in tears and shade;
“This fashionable sunshine dries away
“Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid!
“I wonder what my guardian angels say
“About the sort of woman I have made!
“I wish I could begin my life again!
“What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane?”
LV.
The Countess, all this while, was running over
The pages of a letter, closely cross'd: —
“I wish,” she said, my most devoted lover
“Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost!
“Though some of it is quite a flight above a
“Sane woman's comprehension. Tut! Where was't!
“There is a passage here — the name's Beaulevres —
“His chateau's in the neighborhood of Sevres
LVI.
“The boy's called Jules. Ah, here it is! My child
Brings you this letter. I've not much to say
More than you know of him, if he has smiled
When you have seen him. In his features play
The light from which his soul has been beguiled —
The blessed Heaven I lose with him to-day.
I ask you not to love him — he is there!
And you have loved him — without wish or prayer!
LVII.
His father sends him forth for fame and gold —
An angel, on this errand! I have striven
Against it — but he is not mine to hold,
They say 'tis wrong to wish to stay him, even,
And that my pride 's poor — my ambition cold!
Alas! to get him only back to Heaven
Is my one passionate prayer! Think me not wild —
'Tis that I have an angel for my child!
LVIII.
They say that he has genius. I but see
That he gets wisdom as the flow'r gets hue,
While others hive it like the toiling bee;
That, with him, all things beautiful keep new,
And every morn the first morn seems to be —
So freshly look abroad his eyes of blue!
What he has written seems to me no more
Than I have thought a thousand times before!
LIX.
Yet not upon his gay career to Fame
Broods my foreboding tear. I wish it won —
My prayer speeds on his spirit to its aim —
But in his chamber wait I for my son! —
When darken'd is ambition's star of fame —
When the night's fever of unrest is on —
With the unbidden sadness, the sharp care,
I fly from his bright hours, to meet him there!
LX.
Forgive me if I prate! Is't much — is't wild —
To hope — to pray — that you will sometimes creep
To the dream-haunted pillow of my child,
Keeping sweet watch above his fitful sleep?
Blest like his mother, if in dream he smiled,
Or, if he wept, still blest with him to weep;
Rewarded — Oh, for how much more than this! —
By his awaking smile — his morning kiss!
853
LXI.
I know not how to stop! He leaves me well;
Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak;
His foot bounds with the spring of a gazelle; [streak
But watch him — stay! well thought on! — there's a
Which the first faltering of his tongue will tell,
Long ere the bright blood wavers on his cheek —
A little bursted vein, that, near his heart,
Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart.
LXII.
So, trusting not his cheek by morning light,
When hope sits mantling on it, seek his bed
In the more tranquil watches of the night,
And ask this tell-tale how his heart has sped.
If well — its branching tracery shows bright;
But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead,
Ah, Gertrude! let your ministering be
As you would answer it, in Heaven, to me!”
LXIII.
Enter the page: — “Miladi's maid is waiting!” —
A hint, (that it was time to dress for dinner,)
Which puts a stop in London to all prating.
As far as goes the letter, you're a winner,
The rest of it to flannel shirts relating —
When Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner.
The Countess laughed at Lady Jane's adieu:
She thought the letter touching. Pray, don't you?
LXIV.
I have observed that Heav'n, in answering prayer,
(This is not meant to be a pious stanza —
Only a fact that has a pious air.)
(We're very sure, I think, to have an answer:)
But I've observed, I would remark, that where
Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans are,
Kind Providence goes quite another way
To bring about the end for which we pray.
LXV.
In this connection I would also add,
That a discreet young angel, (bona fide,)
Accompanied our amiable lad;
And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he,
Nor met with an adventure, good or bad,
(Although he enter'd London on a Friday,)
Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute,
Without this angel's guiding finger in it.
LXVI.
His mother, as her letter seems to show,
Expected him, without delay or bother, —
Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all — to go [other!)
Straight to her old friend's house — (forsooth! what
The angel, who would seem the world to know,
Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rather.
He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,)
Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane.
LXVII.
A month in town these gentlemen had been
At date of the commencement of my story.
The angel's occupations you have seen,
If you have read what I have laid before ye.
Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen,
And girded up his loins for fame and glory,
And changed his old integuments for better;
And then he call'd and left his mother's letter.
LXVIII.
That female hearts grow never old, in towns —
That taste grows rather young with dissipation —
That dowagers dress not in high-neck'd gowns —
Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation —
That hospitality is left to clowns,
Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation —
That a “tried friend” should not be tried again —
That boys at seventeen are partly men —
LXIX.
Are truths, as pat as paving-stones, in cities.
The contrary is true of country air;
(Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities,
While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.)
But what I'm trying in this verse to hit is,
That Heav'n, in answering Jules's mother's prayer,
Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities;
As needs must — vide the just-named depravities.
LXX.
Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going,
At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine
I always give in poetry, well knowing
That, to jump over it in half a line,
Looks, (let us be sincere, dear muse!) like showing
Contempt we do not feel, for meat and wine.
Dinner! Ye Gods! What is there more respectable!
For eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle?
LXXI.
'Tis ten — say half-past. Lady Jane has dined,
And dress'd as simply as a lady may.
A card lies on her table `To Remind' —
'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day.
But she is pleasantly surprised to find
'Tis Friday night, the Countess's soirée.
Back rolls the chariot to Berkely Square.
If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there!
LXXII.
We're early. In the cloak-room smokes the urn,
The house-keeper behind it, fat and solemn;
Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn,
And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye call 'em
Their nodding cups of perfume overturn;
The page leans idly by a marble column,
And stiffly a tall footman stands above,
Looking between the fingers of his glove.
LXXIII.
All bright and silent, like a charmed palace —
The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve;
The house-keeper a witch, (cum grano salis;)
The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve
Condemned to servitude by fairy malice;
(I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve!)
Some magic hall, it seems, for revel bright,
And Lady Jane the spirit first alight.
LXXIV.
Alas! here vanishes the foot of Pleasure!
She — like an early guest — goes in before,
And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure
But is not found upon the crowded floor;
(Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're
A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.)
I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista,
As large as life — and walk'd straight on, and miss'd her
LXXV.
With a declining taste for making friends,
One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past;
And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends
The first hour of a gay night, or the last.
(Beginners “burn the candle at both ends,”
And find the middle brightest — that is fast!)
But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a
Mercurial air,) is to come in at supper.
LXXVI.
I mean that you should go to bed at nine
And sleep 'till twelve — take coffee or green tea,
Dress and go out — (this was a way of mine
When looking up the world in '33) —
Sup at the ball — (it's not a place for wine) —
Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be.
You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning
Of growing rather fresher toward morning.
I know not how to stop! He leaves me well;
Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak;
His foot bounds with the spring of a gazelle; [streak
But watch him — stay! well thought on! — there's a
Which the first faltering of his tongue will tell,
Long ere the bright blood wavers on his cheek —
A little bursted vein, that, near his heart,
Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart.
LXII.
So, trusting not his cheek by morning light,
When hope sits mantling on it, seek his bed
In the more tranquil watches of the night,
And ask this tell-tale how his heart has sped.
If well — its branching tracery shows bright;
But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead,
Ah, Gertrude! let your ministering be
As you would answer it, in Heaven, to me!”
LXIII.
Enter the page: — “Miladi's maid is waiting!” —
A hint, (that it was time to dress for dinner,)
Which puts a stop in London to all prating.
As far as goes the letter, you're a winner,
The rest of it to flannel shirts relating —
When Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner.
The Countess laughed at Lady Jane's adieu:
She thought the letter touching. Pray, don't you?
LXIV.
I have observed that Heav'n, in answering prayer,
(This is not meant to be a pious stanza —
Only a fact that has a pious air.)
(We're very sure, I think, to have an answer:)
But I've observed, I would remark, that where
Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans are,
Kind Providence goes quite another way
To bring about the end for which we pray.
LXV.
In this connection I would also add,
That a discreet young angel, (bona fide,)
Accompanied our amiable lad;
And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he,
Nor met with an adventure, good or bad,
(Although he enter'd London on a Friday,)
Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute,
Without this angel's guiding finger in it.
LXVI.
His mother, as her letter seems to show,
Expected him, without delay or bother, —
Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all — to go [other!)
Straight to her old friend's house — (forsooth! what
The angel, who would seem the world to know,
Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rather.
He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,)
Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane.
LXVII.
A month in town these gentlemen had been
At date of the commencement of my story.
The angel's occupations you have seen,
If you have read what I have laid before ye.
Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen,
And girded up his loins for fame and glory,
And changed his old integuments for better;
And then he call'd and left his mother's letter.
LXVIII.
That female hearts grow never old, in towns —
That taste grows rather young with dissipation —
That dowagers dress not in high-neck'd gowns —
Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation —
That hospitality is left to clowns,
Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation —
That a “tried friend” should not be tried again —
That boys at seventeen are partly men —
LXIX.
Are truths, as pat as paving-stones, in cities.
The contrary is true of country air;
(Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities,
While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.)
But what I'm trying in this verse to hit is,
That Heav'n, in answering Jules's mother's prayer,
Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities;
As needs must — vide the just-named depravities.
LXX.
Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going,
At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine
I always give in poetry, well knowing
That, to jump over it in half a line,
Looks, (let us be sincere, dear muse!) like showing
Contempt we do not feel, for meat and wine.
Dinner! Ye Gods! What is there more respectable!
For eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle?
LXXI.
'Tis ten — say half-past. Lady Jane has dined,
And dress'd as simply as a lady may.
A card lies on her table `To Remind' —
'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day.
But she is pleasantly surprised to find
'Tis Friday night, the Countess's soirée.
Back rolls the chariot to Berkely Square.
If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there!
LXXII.
We're early. In the cloak-room smokes the urn,
The house-keeper behind it, fat and solemn;
Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn,
And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye call 'em
Their nodding cups of perfume overturn;
The page leans idly by a marble column,
And stiffly a tall footman stands above,
Looking between the fingers of his glove.
LXXIII.
All bright and silent, like a charmed palace —
The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve;
The house-keeper a witch, (cum grano salis;)
The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve
Condemned to servitude by fairy malice;
(I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve!)
Some magic hall, it seems, for revel bright,
And Lady Jane the spirit first alight.
LXXIV.
Alas! here vanishes the foot of Pleasure!
She — like an early guest — goes in before,
And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure
But is not found upon the crowded floor;
(Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're
A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.)
I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista,
As large as life — and walk'd straight on, and miss'd her
LXXV.
With a declining taste for making friends,
One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past;
And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends
The first hour of a gay night, or the last.
(Beginners “burn the candle at both ends,”
And find the middle brightest — that is fast!)
But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a
Mercurial air,) is to come in at supper.
LXXVI.
I mean that you should go to bed at nine
And sleep 'till twelve — take coffee or green tea,
Dress and go out — (this was a way of mine
When looking up the world in '33) —
Sup at the ball — (it's not a place for wine) —
Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be.
You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning
Of growing rather fresher toward morning.
854
LXXVII.
But, after thirty, here's your best “Elixir:”
Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while
By twelve or one — (this makes the blood run quick, Sir!)
Dine with some man or woman who will smile.
Have little cause to care how politics are,
“Let not the sun go down upon your” bile;
And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever,
I don't see why you shouldn't live for ever.
LXXVIII.
Short-lived is your “sad dog” — and yet, we hear,
“Whom the gods love die young.” Of course the ladies
Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear;
And the result, I'm very much afraid, is,
That if he “has his day,” it's “neither here
Nor there!” But it is time our hero made his
Appearance on the carpet, Lady Jane —
(I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.)
LXXIX.
The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking
The glittering silence with her flowing dress,
Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making
To the fond air; while, to her loveliness
The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking,
Acknowledged not one radiant line the less
That not on them she look'd before she faded!
Neglected gentlemen don't do as they did: —
LXXX.
No! — for, 'twixt our quicksilver and a woman,
Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor,
And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men
Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor;
For, when beloved, we deify what's human —
When piqued, we mock like devils! But I've pluck'd a
Digression here. It's no use, my contending, —
Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending!
LXXXI.
A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster
If you're impatient,) very softly lit
By lamps conceal'd in bells of alabaster,
Lipp'd like a lily, and “as white as it,”
With a sweet statue by a famous master,
Just in the centre, (but not dress'd a bit!) —
This dim room drew aside our early-comer,
Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer.
LXXXII.
And so it was. For, thro' an opening door,
Came the soft breath of a conservatory,
And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er,
Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory;
And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more,
And statues, lamps and flowers — but, to my story!
The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan;
And in it — (Heav'n preserve us!) — sat a man!
LXXXIII.
At least, as far as boots and pantaloons
Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there —
Whatever was the number of his Junes.
She look'd again, and started! In a chair,
Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons,
Reclined, with flakes of sunshine in his hair,
(Or, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real,
But of a beauty like the Greek ideal.
LXXXIV.
He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken,
His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside;
The lip might to a manlier arch awaken —
The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride:
But, now, he lay, of all his masks forsaken,
And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside;
And his bright lips lay smilingly apart,
Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart.
LXXXV.
Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. — (this was he — )
Had never been “put up” to London hours;
And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea,
Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers —
No doubt extremely pleasant, — but, you see,
A great deal of it rather overpowers;
And possibly, that very fine exotic
He sat just under, was a slight narcotic.
LXXXVI.
At any rate, when it was all admired, —
As quite his notion of a Heav'n polite,
(Minus the angels,) — he felt very tired —
As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing, might!
And having by the Countess been desired
To make himself at home, he did so, quite.
He begg'd his early coming might not fetter her
And she went out to dine, the old — etcetera.
LXXXVII.
And thinking of his mother — and his bill
At Mivart's — and of all the sights amazing
Of which, the last few days, he'd had his fill —
And choking when he thought of fame — and gazing
Upon his varnish'd boots, (as young men will,)
And wond'ring how the shops could pay for glazing —
And also, (here his thoughts were getting dim,)
Whether a certain smile was meant for him —
LXXXVIII.
And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow,
The speech he made the Countess, when he met her, —
And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how
He should describe her in the morrow's letter) —
And sighing “Good-night!” (he was dreaming now) —
Jules dropp'd into a world he liked much better;
But left his earthly mansion unprotected,
Well, Sir! 'twas robb'd — as might have been expected
LXXXIX.
The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping,
And in his lips' rare beauty read his name;
And to his side with breathless wonder creeping,
Resistless to her heart the feeling came,
That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping,
Was giv'n the gem within that fragile frame.
And bending with almost a mother's bliss,
To his bright lips, she scal'd it with a kiss!
XC.
Oh, in that kiss how much of Heav'n united!
What haste to pity — eagerness to bless!
What thirsting of a heart, long pent and slighted,
For something fair, yet human, to caress!
How fathomless the love so briefly plighted!
What kiss thrill'd ever more — sinn'd ever less!
So love the angels, sent with holy mercies!
And so love poets — in their early verses!
XCI.
If, in well-bred society, (“hear! hear!”)
If, in this “wrong and pleasant” world of ours
There beats a pulse that scraphs may revere —
If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flowers,
Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here —
If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours,
A bliss that will spring up in bliss again —
'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen!
XCII.
To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn —
To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain —
To seek him with most love when most forlorn —
Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane.
And thus, in sinless purity is born,
Alway, the love of woman. So, again,
I say, that up to kissing — later even —
A woman's love may have its feet in Heaven.
But, after thirty, here's your best “Elixir:”
Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while
By twelve or one — (this makes the blood run quick, Sir!)
Dine with some man or woman who will smile.
Have little cause to care how politics are,
“Let not the sun go down upon your” bile;
And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever,
I don't see why you shouldn't live for ever.
LXXVIII.
Short-lived is your “sad dog” — and yet, we hear,
“Whom the gods love die young.” Of course the ladies
Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear;
And the result, I'm very much afraid, is,
That if he “has his day,” it's “neither here
Nor there!” But it is time our hero made his
Appearance on the carpet, Lady Jane —
(I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.)
LXXIX.
The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking
The glittering silence with her flowing dress,
Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making
To the fond air; while, to her loveliness
The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking,
Acknowledged not one radiant line the less
That not on them she look'd before she faded!
Neglected gentlemen don't do as they did: —
LXXX.
No! — for, 'twixt our quicksilver and a woman,
Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor,
And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men
Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor;
For, when beloved, we deify what's human —
When piqued, we mock like devils! But I've pluck'd a
Digression here. It's no use, my contending, —
Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending!
LXXXI.
A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster
If you're impatient,) very softly lit
By lamps conceal'd in bells of alabaster,
Lipp'd like a lily, and “as white as it,”
With a sweet statue by a famous master,
Just in the centre, (but not dress'd a bit!) —
This dim room drew aside our early-comer,
Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer.
LXXXII.
And so it was. For, thro' an opening door,
Came the soft breath of a conservatory,
And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er,
Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory;
And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more,
And statues, lamps and flowers — but, to my story!
The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan;
And in it — (Heav'n preserve us!) — sat a man!
LXXXIII.
At least, as far as boots and pantaloons
Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there —
Whatever was the number of his Junes.
She look'd again, and started! In a chair,
Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons,
Reclined, with flakes of sunshine in his hair,
(Or, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real,
But of a beauty like the Greek ideal.
LXXXIV.
He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken,
His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside;
The lip might to a manlier arch awaken —
The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride:
But, now, he lay, of all his masks forsaken,
And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside;
And his bright lips lay smilingly apart,
Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart.
LXXXV.
Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. — (this was he — )
Had never been “put up” to London hours;
And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea,
Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers —
No doubt extremely pleasant, — but, you see,
A great deal of it rather overpowers;
And possibly, that very fine exotic
He sat just under, was a slight narcotic.
LXXXVI.
At any rate, when it was all admired, —
As quite his notion of a Heav'n polite,
(Minus the angels,) — he felt very tired —
As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing, might!
And having by the Countess been desired
To make himself at home, he did so, quite.
He begg'd his early coming might not fetter her
And she went out to dine, the old — etcetera.
LXXXVII.
And thinking of his mother — and his bill
At Mivart's — and of all the sights amazing
Of which, the last few days, he'd had his fill —
And choking when he thought of fame — and gazing
Upon his varnish'd boots, (as young men will,)
And wond'ring how the shops could pay for glazing —
And also, (here his thoughts were getting dim,)
Whether a certain smile was meant for him —
LXXXVIII.
And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow,
The speech he made the Countess, when he met her, —
And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how
He should describe her in the morrow's letter) —
And sighing “Good-night!” (he was dreaming now) —
Jules dropp'd into a world he liked much better;
But left his earthly mansion unprotected,
Well, Sir! 'twas robb'd — as might have been expected
LXXXIX.
The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping,
And in his lips' rare beauty read his name;
And to his side with breathless wonder creeping,
Resistless to her heart the feeling came,
That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping,
Was giv'n the gem within that fragile frame.
And bending with almost a mother's bliss,
To his bright lips, she scal'd it with a kiss!
XC.
Oh, in that kiss how much of Heav'n united!
What haste to pity — eagerness to bless!
What thirsting of a heart, long pent and slighted,
For something fair, yet human, to caress!
How fathomless the love so briefly plighted!
What kiss thrill'd ever more — sinn'd ever less!
So love the angels, sent with holy mercies!
And so love poets — in their early verses!
XCI.
If, in well-bred society, (“hear! hear!”)
If, in this “wrong and pleasant” world of ours
There beats a pulse that scraphs may revere —
If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flowers,
Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here —
If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours,
A bliss that will spring up in bliss again —
'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen!
XCII.
To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn —
To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain —
To seek him with most love when most forlorn —
Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane.
And thus, in sinless purity is born,
Alway, the love of woman. So, again,
I say, that up to kissing — later even —
A woman's love may have its feet in Heaven.
855
XCIII.
Jules open'd (at the kiss) his large blue eyes,
And calmly gazed upon the face above him,
But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise —
Although his situation well might move him.
He seem'd so cool, (my lyre shall tell no lies,)
That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love him;
When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu
Enter'd the room with, “Dear me! how d'ye do!”
XCIV.
Up sprang the boy — amazement on his brow!
But the next instant, through his lips there crept
A just awakening smile, and, with a bow,
Calmly he said: “'Twas only while I slept
The angels did not vanish — until now.”
A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept.
The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began
To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man.
XCV.
Jules had that precious quality call'd tact;
And having made a very warm beginning,
He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd;
As if incapable of further sinning.
'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact,
The ladies like, themselves, to do the winning.
In female Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine;
And the Othellos “seriously incline.”
XCVI.
So, with a manner quite reserved and plain,
Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made
Many apologies to Lady Jane
For the eccentric part that he had play'd.
Regretted he had slept — confess'd with pain
He took her for an angel — was afraid
He had been rude — abrupt — did he alarm
Her much? — and might he offer her his arm?
XCVII.
And as they ranged that sweet conservatory,
He heeded not the flowers he walk'd among;
But such an air of earnest listening wore he,
That a dumb statue must have found a tongue;
And like a child that hears a fairy story,
His parted lips upon her utterance hung.
He seem'd to know by instinct, (else how was it?)
That people love the bank where they deposit.
XCVIII.
And closer, as the moments faster wore,
The slender arm within her own she press'd;
And yielding to the magic spell he bore —
The earnest truth upon his lips imprest —
She lavishly told out the golden ore
Hoarded a life-time in her guarded breast.
And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tender —
Although he did not always comprehend her.
XCIX.
And this in him was no deep calculation,
But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming,
Abandonment complete to admiration —
His soul gone from him as it goes in dreaming.
I wish'd to make this little explanation,
Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming;
I can assure you it was never plann'd;
I have it from his angel, (second hand.)
C.
And from the same authentic source I know,
That Lady Jane still thought him but a lad;
Tho', why the dence she didn't treat him so,
Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad!
Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow
To take more beard for granted that he had.
A funny friend to lend a nice young man to!
I'm glad I've got him safely through one Canto.
CANTO II.
I.
The Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full,
Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball —
Only “her Friday night.” The air was cool;
And there were people in the house of all
Varieties, except the pure John Bull.
The number of young ladies, too, was small —
You seldom find old John, or his young daughters,
Swimming in very literary waters.
II.
Indeed, with rare exceptions, women given
To the society of famous men,
Are those who will confess to twenty-seven;
But add to this the next reluctant ten,
And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven,
For sumptuously beautiful is then
The woman of proud mien and thoughtful brow;
And one (still bright in her meridian now)
III.
Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye.
A creature of a loftier mould was she
Than in his dreams had ever glided by;
And through his veins the blood flew startingly,
And he felt sick at heart — he knew not why —
For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see
Angels look on us with a cold regard,
(Not knowing those who never left their card.)
IV.
She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes
Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below;
And parted on that brow in jetty flakes
The raven hair swept back with wavy flow,
Rounding a head of such a shape as makes
The old Greek marble with the goddess glow.
Her nostril's breaching arch might threaten storm —
But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm.
V.
And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek whose red
Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest:
And neck set on as if to bear a head —
May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, —
So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bed!
So proudly rode above the swelling breast!
And motion, effortless as stars awaking
And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking;
VI.
And voice delicious quite, and smile that came
Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled thro': —
These charms I've been particular to name,
For they are, like an inventory, true,
And of themselves were stuff enough for fame;
But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too,
And brilliantly her thread of life is spun —
In verse and beauty both, the “Undying One!”
VII.
And song — for in those kindling lips there lay
Music to wing all utterance outward breaking,
As if upon the ivory teeth did play
Angels, who caught the words at their awaking,
And sped them with sweet melodies away —
The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking.
Of proof to this last fact there's little lack;
And Jules, poor lad! ne'er got his truant back!
VIII.
That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two,
(I should premise) — all poets being double,
Living in two worlds as of course they do,
Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble
T' explain in which they're living, as to you!
And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble,
For who can fairly write a bard's biography,
When, of his fancy-world, there's no geography!
Jules open'd (at the kiss) his large blue eyes,
And calmly gazed upon the face above him,
But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise —
Although his situation well might move him.
He seem'd so cool, (my lyre shall tell no lies,)
That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love him;
When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu
Enter'd the room with, “Dear me! how d'ye do!”
XCIV.
Up sprang the boy — amazement on his brow!
But the next instant, through his lips there crept
A just awakening smile, and, with a bow,
Calmly he said: “'Twas only while I slept
The angels did not vanish — until now.”
A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept.
The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began
To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man.
XCV.
Jules had that precious quality call'd tact;
And having made a very warm beginning,
He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd;
As if incapable of further sinning.
'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact,
The ladies like, themselves, to do the winning.
In female Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine;
And the Othellos “seriously incline.”
XCVI.
So, with a manner quite reserved and plain,
Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made
Many apologies to Lady Jane
For the eccentric part that he had play'd.
Regretted he had slept — confess'd with pain
He took her for an angel — was afraid
He had been rude — abrupt — did he alarm
Her much? — and might he offer her his arm?
XCVII.
And as they ranged that sweet conservatory,
He heeded not the flowers he walk'd among;
But such an air of earnest listening wore he,
That a dumb statue must have found a tongue;
And like a child that hears a fairy story,
His parted lips upon her utterance hung.
He seem'd to know by instinct, (else how was it?)
That people love the bank where they deposit.
XCVIII.
And closer, as the moments faster wore,
The slender arm within her own she press'd;
And yielding to the magic spell he bore —
The earnest truth upon his lips imprest —
She lavishly told out the golden ore
Hoarded a life-time in her guarded breast.
And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tender —
Although he did not always comprehend her.
XCIX.
And this in him was no deep calculation,
But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming,
Abandonment complete to admiration —
His soul gone from him as it goes in dreaming.
I wish'd to make this little explanation,
Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming;
I can assure you it was never plann'd;
I have it from his angel, (second hand.)
C.
And from the same authentic source I know,
That Lady Jane still thought him but a lad;
Tho', why the dence she didn't treat him so,
Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad!
Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow
To take more beard for granted that he had.
A funny friend to lend a nice young man to!
I'm glad I've got him safely through one Canto.
CANTO II.
I.
The Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full,
Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball —
Only “her Friday night.” The air was cool;
And there were people in the house of all
Varieties, except the pure John Bull.
The number of young ladies, too, was small —
You seldom find old John, or his young daughters,
Swimming in very literary waters.
II.
Indeed, with rare exceptions, women given
To the society of famous men,
Are those who will confess to twenty-seven;
But add to this the next reluctant ten,
And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven,
For sumptuously beautiful is then
The woman of proud mien and thoughtful brow;
And one (still bright in her meridian now)
III.
Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye.
A creature of a loftier mould was she
Than in his dreams had ever glided by;
And through his veins the blood flew startingly,
And he felt sick at heart — he knew not why —
For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see
Angels look on us with a cold regard,
(Not knowing those who never left their card.)
IV.
She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes
Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below;
And parted on that brow in jetty flakes
The raven hair swept back with wavy flow,
Rounding a head of such a shape as makes
The old Greek marble with the goddess glow.
Her nostril's breaching arch might threaten storm —
But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm.
V.
And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek whose red
Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest:
And neck set on as if to bear a head —
May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, —
So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bed!
So proudly rode above the swelling breast!
And motion, effortless as stars awaking
And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking;
VI.
And voice delicious quite, and smile that came
Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled thro': —
These charms I've been particular to name,
For they are, like an inventory, true,
And of themselves were stuff enough for fame;
But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too,
And brilliantly her thread of life is spun —
In verse and beauty both, the “Undying One!”
VII.
And song — for in those kindling lips there lay
Music to wing all utterance outward breaking,
As if upon the ivory teeth did play
Angels, who caught the words at their awaking,
And sped them with sweet melodies away —
The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking.
Of proof to this last fact there's little lack;
And Jules, poor lad! ne'er got his truant back!
VIII.
That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two,
(I should premise) — all poets being double,
Living in two worlds as of course they do,
Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble
T' explain in which they're living, as to you!
And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble,
For who can fairly write a bard's biography,
When, of his fancy-world, there's no geography!
856
IX.
Jules was at perfect liberty in fact
To love again, and still be true in fancy;
Else were this story at its closing act.
Nay, he in fact might wed, and in romance he
Might find the qualities his sposa lack'd —
(A truth that I could easier make a man see,)
And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is
The calling such stray fancies “infidelities.”
X.
Byron was man and bard, and Lady B.,
In wishing to monopolize him wholly,
Committed bigamy, you plainly see.
She, being very single, Guiccioli
Took off the odd one of the wedded three —
A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy.
The after sin, which still his fame environs,
Was giving Guiccioli both the Byrons.
XI.
The stern wife drove him from her. Had she loved
With all the woman's tenderness the while,
He had not been the wanderer he proved.
Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile;
And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved,
The heart speeds home with far more light a wile.
The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life
Is the unclouded welcome of a wife.
XII.
To poets more than all — for truthful love
Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness;
Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove
The poet's love when nearest to completeness,
Must wed the man and let the fancy rove —
Loose to the air that wing of cager fleetness,
And smile it home when wearied out — with air.
But if you scold him, Madam! have a care!
XIII.
All this time the “Undying One” was singing.
She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a pain
While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing;
So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane,
Which rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging,
He made himself a literary lane —
Punching and shoving every kind of writer
'Till he got out. (He might have been politer.)
XIV.
Free of “the press,” he wander'd thro' the rooms,
Longing for solitude, but studying faces;
And, smitten with the ugliness of Brougham's,
He mused upon the cross with monkey races —
(Hieroglyphick'd on th' Egyptian tombs
And shown in France with very striking traces.)
“Rejected” Smith's he thought a head quite glorious;
And Hook, all button'd up, he took for “Boreas.”
XV.
He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand,
And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye;
And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand,
While a most royal Duke went bowing by —
Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand —
Saw Lady Chatterton take snuff and sigh —
Saw graceful Bulwer say “good-night,” and vanish —
Heard Crofton Croker's brogue, and thought it Spanish.
XVI.
He saw Smith whispering something very queer,
And Hayward creep behind to overhear him;
Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear,
(Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him,
The error — not the mouth — became quite clear;)
He saw “the Duke” and had a mind to cheer him;
And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather,
And clever Babbage, with his face of leather.
XVII.
And there was plump and saucy Mrs. Gore,
And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie,
And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore;
And there was “devilish handsome” D'Israeli;
And not a lion of all these did roar;
But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, —
Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery
To talk of “porcelain” — 'twas a world of crockery.
XVIII.
'Tis half a pity authors should be seen!
Jules thought so, and I think so too, with Jules.
They'd better do the immortal with a screen,
And show but mortal in a world of fools;
Men talk of “taste” for thunder — but they mean
Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools;
They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade,
To know — just how the oracle is made!
XIX.
What we should think of Bulwer's works — without him,
His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle;
What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him,
Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal;
What of old Lardner, (gracious! how they flout him!)
Without this broad — (and Heavy-) side of scandal;
What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a “Boz”
Like Johnson — would be curious questions, coz!
XX.
Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud,
(Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,)
But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so loud,
And no one asks the god to dinner after;
And “Fame's proud temple,” build it ne'er so proud,
Finds notoriety a useful rafter.
And when you've been abused awhile, you learn
All blasts blow fair for you — that blow astern!
XXI.
No “pro” without its “con;” — The pro is fame,
Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill;
The con is beef and mutton, sometimes game,
Madeira, Sherry, claret, what you will;
The ladies' (albums) striving for your name;
All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill;
And “in the gate,” an unbelieving Jew,
Your “Mordecai!” — Why, clearly con's your cue!
XXII.
I've “reason'd” myself neatly “round the ring,”
While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more,
And supper being but a heavy thing,
(To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door,
And his first night to a conclusion bring;
Not (with your kind permission, sir) before
I tell you what her Ladyship said to him
As home to Brook-street her swift horses drew him
XXIII.
“You're comfortably lodged, I trust,” she said:
“And Mrs. Mivart — is she like a mother?
“Have you mosquito curtains to your bed?
“Do you sleep well without your little brother?
“What do you eat for breakfast — baker's bread?
“I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather
“What do you do to-morrow? — say at five,
“Or four — say four — I call for you to drive?
XXIV.
“There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum —
“Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas?
“But there's an armadillo — you must see him!
“And those big-eyed giraffes and heavenly lamas!
“And — are you fond of music? — the Te Deum
“Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas,
“At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air!
“And you've no hat on! — let me feel your hair!
Jules was at perfect liberty in fact
To love again, and still be true in fancy;
Else were this story at its closing act.
Nay, he in fact might wed, and in romance he
Might find the qualities his sposa lack'd —
(A truth that I could easier make a man see,)
And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is
The calling such stray fancies “infidelities.”
X.
Byron was man and bard, and Lady B.,
In wishing to monopolize him wholly,
Committed bigamy, you plainly see.
She, being very single, Guiccioli
Took off the odd one of the wedded three —
A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy.
The after sin, which still his fame environs,
Was giving Guiccioli both the Byrons.
XI.
The stern wife drove him from her. Had she loved
With all the woman's tenderness the while,
He had not been the wanderer he proved.
Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile;
And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved,
The heart speeds home with far more light a wile.
The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life
Is the unclouded welcome of a wife.
XII.
To poets more than all — for truthful love
Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness;
Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove
The poet's love when nearest to completeness,
Must wed the man and let the fancy rove —
Loose to the air that wing of cager fleetness,
And smile it home when wearied out — with air.
But if you scold him, Madam! have a care!
XIII.
All this time the “Undying One” was singing.
She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a pain
While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing;
So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane,
Which rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging,
He made himself a literary lane —
Punching and shoving every kind of writer
'Till he got out. (He might have been politer.)
XIV.
Free of “the press,” he wander'd thro' the rooms,
Longing for solitude, but studying faces;
And, smitten with the ugliness of Brougham's,
He mused upon the cross with monkey races —
(Hieroglyphick'd on th' Egyptian tombs
And shown in France with very striking traces.)
“Rejected” Smith's he thought a head quite glorious;
And Hook, all button'd up, he took for “Boreas.”
XV.
He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand,
And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye;
And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand,
While a most royal Duke went bowing by —
Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand —
Saw Lady Chatterton take snuff and sigh —
Saw graceful Bulwer say “good-night,” and vanish —
Heard Crofton Croker's brogue, and thought it Spanish.
XVI.
He saw Smith whispering something very queer,
And Hayward creep behind to overhear him;
Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear,
(Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him,
The error — not the mouth — became quite clear;)
He saw “the Duke” and had a mind to cheer him;
And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather,
And clever Babbage, with his face of leather.
XVII.
And there was plump and saucy Mrs. Gore,
And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie,
And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore;
And there was “devilish handsome” D'Israeli;
And not a lion of all these did roar;
But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, —
Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery
To talk of “porcelain” — 'twas a world of crockery.
XVIII.
'Tis half a pity authors should be seen!
Jules thought so, and I think so too, with Jules.
They'd better do the immortal with a screen,
And show but mortal in a world of fools;
Men talk of “taste” for thunder — but they mean
Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools;
They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade,
To know — just how the oracle is made!
XIX.
What we should think of Bulwer's works — without him,
His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle;
What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him,
Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal;
What of old Lardner, (gracious! how they flout him!)
Without this broad — (and Heavy-) side of scandal;
What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a “Boz”
Like Johnson — would be curious questions, coz!
XX.
Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud,
(Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,)
But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so loud,
And no one asks the god to dinner after;
And “Fame's proud temple,” build it ne'er so proud,
Finds notoriety a useful rafter.
And when you've been abused awhile, you learn
All blasts blow fair for you — that blow astern!
XXI.
No “pro” without its “con;” — The pro is fame,
Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill;
The con is beef and mutton, sometimes game,
Madeira, Sherry, claret, what you will;
The ladies' (albums) striving for your name;
All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill;
And “in the gate,” an unbelieving Jew,
Your “Mordecai!” — Why, clearly con's your cue!
XXII.
I've “reason'd” myself neatly “round the ring,”
While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more,
And supper being but a heavy thing,
(To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door,
And his first night to a conclusion bring;
Not (with your kind permission, sir) before
I tell you what her Ladyship said to him
As home to Brook-street her swift horses drew him
XXIII.
“You're comfortably lodged, I trust,” she said:
“And Mrs. Mivart — is she like a mother?
“Have you mosquito curtains to your bed?
“Do you sleep well without your little brother?
“What do you eat for breakfast — baker's bread?
“I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather
“What do you do to-morrow? — say at five,
“Or four — say four — I call for you to drive?
XXIV.
“There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum —
“Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas?
“But there's an armadillo — you must see him!
“And those big-eyed giraffes and heavenly lamas!
“And — are you fond of music? — the Te Deum
“Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas,
“At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air!
“And you've no hat on! — let me feel your hair!
857
XXV.
“Poor boy!” — but Jules's head was on her breast,
Rock'd like a nautilus in calm mid ocean;
And while its curls within her hands she press'd,
The Lady Jane experienced some emotion:
For, did he sleep? or wish to be caress'd?
What meant the child? — she'd not the slightest notion!
Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake —
Trembling and slightly flush'd — but wide awake.
XXVI.
Loose rein! put spur! and follow, gentle reader!
For I must take a flying leap in rhyme;
And be to you both Jupiter and leader,
Annihilating space, (we all kill time,)
And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a
Delight or two, besides the pleasant clime.
The Lady Jane and he, (I scorn your cavils —
The Earl was with them, sir!) were on their travels.
XXVII.
You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic,
As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Frith of Forth;
And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic —
Too delicate to winter so far north;
The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic,
And Lady Jane's condition little worth;
So, thro' celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,)
They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy.
XXVIII.
Oh Italy! — but no — I'll tell its faults!
It has them, tho' the blood so “nimbly capers”
Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults,
That we forget big rooms and little tapers —
Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz —
Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers —
Forget how dully sits, mid ancient glory,
This rich man's heaven — this poor man's purgatory!
XXIX.
Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, he
Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's;
And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity
To know a land where people are but sticks —
Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity,
But spend your money, if you like, with kicks —
Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility,
To welcome golden “Snooks” with base servility.
XXX.
Jules was not in the poor man's category —
So Rome's condition never spoilt his supper.
The deuce (for him) might take the Curtian glory
Of riding with a nation on his crupper.
He lived upon a Marquis's first story —
The venerable Marquis in the upper —
And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,)
To do some things at Rome that Romans do.
XXXI.
The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter,
(He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,)
The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter —
The friend a noble like himself, the girl
A diamond of the very purest water;
(Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl;)
And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove,
And of a pride their fortunes much above.
XXXII.
The Marquis had not much besides his palace,
The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught;
And, one day, died this very Count Pascalis,
Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought;
And, tho' the Fates had done the thing in malice,
The old man took her, without second thought,
And married her. “She's freer thus,” he said,
“And will be young to marry when I'm dead.”
XXXIII.
Meantime, she had a title, house, and carriage,
And, far from wearing chains, had newly burst 'em —
For, as of course you know, before their marriage
Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom —
Not meaning their discretion to disparage,
But just because they're sure they couldn't trust 'em.
When wedded, they are free enough — moreover,
The marriage contract specifies one lover.
XXXIV.
Not that the Marchioness had one — no, no! —
Nor wanted one. It is not my intention
To hint it in this tale. Jules lodged below —
But his vicinity's not my invention;
And, if it seem to you more apropos
Than I have thought it worth my while to mention,
Why, you think as the world did — verbum sat —
But still it needn't be so — for all that.
XXXV.
'Most any female neighbor, up a stair,
Occasions thought in him who lodges under;
And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where
(A “flight too high” 's a very common blunder.)
He saw a lady whom he thought as fair
As “from her shell rose” Mrs. Smith of Thunder.
Tho' Venus, I would say were Vulcan by,
Was no more like the Marchioness than I.
XXXVI.
For this grave sin there needed much remission;
And t' assure it, oft the offender went.
The Marquis had a very famous Titian,
And Jules so often came to pay his rent,
The old man recommended a physician,
Thinking his intellects a little bent.
And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him,
Till, finally, he couldn't live without him.
XXXVII.
And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane,
Jules paid him back his love; and there, all day,
The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain,
Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gay:
And the old man lived o'er his youth again,
Seeing those grown-up children at their play —
His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarcely more,
'Twas frolic infancy to eighty-four.
XXXVIII.
There seems less mystery in matrimony,
With people living nearer the equator;
And early, like the most familiar crony,
Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter,
Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, —
The Marchioness at toast and coffee later;
And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he hid it;
And if her dress required “doing” — did it.
XXXIX.
Now tho' the Marchioness in church did faint once,
And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill;
And tho' the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones —
She scarce a woman, and his age octuple —
'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance,
To call Jules lover with so little scruple!
He'd a caressing way — but la! you know it's
A sort of manner natural to poets!
XL.
God made them prodigal in their bestowing;
And, if their smiles were riches, few were poor!
They turn to all the sunshine that is going —
Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure —
Their love at heart and lips is overflowing —
Their motto, “Trust the future — now is sure!”
Their natural pulse is high intoxication —
(Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration.)
“Poor boy!” — but Jules's head was on her breast,
Rock'd like a nautilus in calm mid ocean;
And while its curls within her hands she press'd,
The Lady Jane experienced some emotion:
For, did he sleep? or wish to be caress'd?
What meant the child? — she'd not the slightest notion!
Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake —
Trembling and slightly flush'd — but wide awake.
XXVI.
Loose rein! put spur! and follow, gentle reader!
For I must take a flying leap in rhyme;
And be to you both Jupiter and leader,
Annihilating space, (we all kill time,)
And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a
Delight or two, besides the pleasant clime.
The Lady Jane and he, (I scorn your cavils —
The Earl was with them, sir!) were on their travels.
XXVII.
You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic,
As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Frith of Forth;
And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic —
Too delicate to winter so far north;
The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic,
And Lady Jane's condition little worth;
So, thro' celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,)
They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy.
XXVIII.
Oh Italy! — but no — I'll tell its faults!
It has them, tho' the blood so “nimbly capers”
Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults,
That we forget big rooms and little tapers —
Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz —
Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers —
Forget how dully sits, mid ancient glory,
This rich man's heaven — this poor man's purgatory!
XXIX.
Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, he
Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's;
And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity
To know a land where people are but sticks —
Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity,
But spend your money, if you like, with kicks —
Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility,
To welcome golden “Snooks” with base servility.
XXX.
Jules was not in the poor man's category —
So Rome's condition never spoilt his supper.
The deuce (for him) might take the Curtian glory
Of riding with a nation on his crupper.
He lived upon a Marquis's first story —
The venerable Marquis in the upper —
And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,)
To do some things at Rome that Romans do.
XXXI.
The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter,
(He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,)
The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter —
The friend a noble like himself, the girl
A diamond of the very purest water;
(Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl;)
And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove,
And of a pride their fortunes much above.
XXXII.
The Marquis had not much besides his palace,
The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught;
And, one day, died this very Count Pascalis,
Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought;
And, tho' the Fates had done the thing in malice,
The old man took her, without second thought,
And married her. “She's freer thus,” he said,
“And will be young to marry when I'm dead.”
XXXIII.
Meantime, she had a title, house, and carriage,
And, far from wearing chains, had newly burst 'em —
For, as of course you know, before their marriage
Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom —
Not meaning their discretion to disparage,
But just because they're sure they couldn't trust 'em.
When wedded, they are free enough — moreover,
The marriage contract specifies one lover.
XXXIV.
Not that the Marchioness had one — no, no! —
Nor wanted one. It is not my intention
To hint it in this tale. Jules lodged below —
But his vicinity's not my invention;
And, if it seem to you more apropos
Than I have thought it worth my while to mention,
Why, you think as the world did — verbum sat —
But still it needn't be so — for all that.
XXXV.
'Most any female neighbor, up a stair,
Occasions thought in him who lodges under;
And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where
(A “flight too high” 's a very common blunder.)
He saw a lady whom he thought as fair
As “from her shell rose” Mrs. Smith of Thunder.
Tho' Venus, I would say were Vulcan by,
Was no more like the Marchioness than I.
XXXVI.
For this grave sin there needed much remission;
And t' assure it, oft the offender went.
The Marquis had a very famous Titian,
And Jules so often came to pay his rent,
The old man recommended a physician,
Thinking his intellects a little bent.
And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him,
Till, finally, he couldn't live without him.
XXXVII.
And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane,
Jules paid him back his love; and there, all day,
The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain,
Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gay:
And the old man lived o'er his youth again,
Seeing those grown-up children at their play —
His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarcely more,
'Twas frolic infancy to eighty-four.
XXXVIII.
There seems less mystery in matrimony,
With people living nearer the equator;
And early, like the most familiar crony,
Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter,
Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, —
The Marchioness at toast and coffee later;
And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he hid it;
And if her dress required “doing” — did it.
XXXIX.
Now tho' the Marchioness in church did faint once,
And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill;
And tho' the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones —
She scarce a woman, and his age octuple —
'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance,
To call Jules lover with so little scruple!
He'd a caressing way — but la! you know it's
A sort of manner natural to poets!
XL.
God made them prodigal in their bestowing;
And, if their smiles were riches, few were poor!
They turn to all the sunshine that is going —
Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure —
Their love at heart and lips is overflowing —
Their motto, “Trust the future — now is sure!”
Their natural pulse is high intoxication —
(Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration.)
858
XLI.
Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion,
The symptoms are not read by “those who run;”
And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion
To count them but as children of the sun —
Not to be baited like the “bulls of Bashan,”
Nor liable, like clods, for “one pound one” —
But reverenced — as Indians rev'rence fools —
Inspired, tho' God knows how. Well — such was Jules.
XLII.
The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window —
The window of his heart — and let him in!
The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hindoo,
And she thought loving him could be no sin;
And as she loved not yet as those who sin do,
'Twas very well — wasn't not? Stick there a pin!
It strikes me that so far — to this last stanza —
The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir!
XLIII.
I have not bored you much with his “abilities,”
Tho' I set out to treat you to a poet,
The first course commonly is “puerilities” —
(A soup well pepper'd — all the critics know it!)
Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is,
For “spoons” to stir, and puffy lips to blow it.)
Then, poet stuff'd, and by his kidney roasted,
And last (with “lagrima,”) “the devil” toasted.
XLIV.
High-scream between the devil and the roast,
But no Sham-pain! — Hold there! the fit is o'er.
Obsta principiis — one pun breeds a host —
(Alarmingly prolific for a bore!)
But he who never sins can little boast
Compared to him who goes and sins no more!
The “sinful Mary” walks more white in Heaven
Than some who never “sinn'd and were forgiven!”
XLV.
Jules had objections very strong to playing
His character of poet — therefore I
Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying.
But tho' he'd neither frenzy in his eye,
Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying —
(A thing he piqued himself on, by the by — )
His conversation frequently arose
To what was thought a goodly flight for prose.
XLVI.
His beau ideal was to sink the attic,
(Tho' not by birth, nor taste, “the salt above” — )
To pitilessly cut the air erratic
Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love,
And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic —
Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove.
But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey!
And Jules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny.
XLVII.
This was one secret of his popularity,
Men hate a manner colder than their own,
And ladies — bless their hearts! love chaste hilarity
Better than sentiment — if truth were known!
And Jules had one more slight peculiarity —
He'd little “approbativeness” — or none —
And what the critics said concern'd him little —
Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual.
XLVIII.
Critics, I say — of course he was in print —
“Poems,” of course — of course “anonymous” —
Of course he found a publisher by dint
Of search most diligent, and far more fuss
Than chemists make in melting you a flint.
Since that experiment he reckons plus
Better manure than minus for his bays —
In short, seeks immortality — “that pays.”
XLIX.
He writes in prose — the public like it better.
Well — let the public! You may take a poet,
And he shall write his grandmother a letter,
And, if he's any thing but rhyme — he'll show it
Prose may be poetry, without its fetter,
And be it pun or pathos, high or low wit,
The thread will show its gold, however twisted —
(I wish the public flatter'd me that this did!)
L.
No doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels.
I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so,
Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's —
(That is my Sunday reading — so I know,)
Yet there's Childe Harold — excellent good travels —
And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe!
But tho' a clever verse-r makes a prose-r,
About the vice-versa, I don't know, sir!
LI.
Verser 's a better word than versifier,
(Unless 'tis verse on fire, you mean to say,)
And I've long thought there's something to desire
In poet's nomenclature, by the way.
It sounds but queer to laud “the well-known lyre” —
Call a dog “poet!” he will run away —
And “songster,” “rhymester,” “bard,” and “poetaster,”
Are customers they're shy of at the Astor.
LII.
A “scribbler's” is a skittish reputation,
And weighs a man down like a hod of mortar.
Commend a suitor's wit, imagination —
The merchant may think of him for his daughter;
But say that “he writes poetry” — — n!
Her “Pa” would rather throw her in the water!
And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove,
Their bills stand all at pa, they much above!
LIII.
Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses;
And sometimes did, “forever!” — (for a week!)
He found for time so many other uses.
His superfluity was his physique;
And exercise, if violent, induces
Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek;
And, (tho' details are neither here nor there,)
Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair;
LIV.
Particularly that of breaking horses.
The rate of circulation in the blood,
Best suited to the meditative forces,
Is quite as far from mercury as mud —
That of the starry, not the racing-courses.
No man can trim his style mid fire and flood,
Nor in a passion, nor just after marriage;
And, as to Cæsar's writing in his carriage,
LV.
Credat Judæus! Thought is free and easy;
But language, unless wrought with labor limæ,
Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye!
The bee makes honey, but his toil is thymy,
And nothing is well done until it tease ye;
(Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he!)
Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking,
Tho' monstrous fun, was not a poet's making.
LVI.
True — some drink up to composition's glow;
Some talk up to it — vide Neckar's daughter!
But when the temp'rature's a fourth too low,
Of course you make up the deficient quarter!
Like Byron's atmosphere, which, chemists know
Required hydrogen — (more gin and water.)
And Jules's sanguine hurnor was too high,
So, of the bottle he had need be shy!
Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion,
The symptoms are not read by “those who run;”
And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion
To count them but as children of the sun —
Not to be baited like the “bulls of Bashan,”
Nor liable, like clods, for “one pound one” —
But reverenced — as Indians rev'rence fools —
Inspired, tho' God knows how. Well — such was Jules.
XLII.
The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window —
The window of his heart — and let him in!
The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hindoo,
And she thought loving him could be no sin;
And as she loved not yet as those who sin do,
'Twas very well — wasn't not? Stick there a pin!
It strikes me that so far — to this last stanza —
The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir!
XLIII.
I have not bored you much with his “abilities,”
Tho' I set out to treat you to a poet,
The first course commonly is “puerilities” —
(A soup well pepper'd — all the critics know it!)
Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is,
For “spoons” to stir, and puffy lips to blow it.)
Then, poet stuff'd, and by his kidney roasted,
And last (with “lagrima,”) “the devil” toasted.
XLIV.
High-scream between the devil and the roast,
But no Sham-pain! — Hold there! the fit is o'er.
Obsta principiis — one pun breeds a host —
(Alarmingly prolific for a bore!)
But he who never sins can little boast
Compared to him who goes and sins no more!
The “sinful Mary” walks more white in Heaven
Than some who never “sinn'd and were forgiven!”
XLV.
Jules had objections very strong to playing
His character of poet — therefore I
Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying.
But tho' he'd neither frenzy in his eye,
Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying —
(A thing he piqued himself on, by the by — )
His conversation frequently arose
To what was thought a goodly flight for prose.
XLVI.
His beau ideal was to sink the attic,
(Tho' not by birth, nor taste, “the salt above” — )
To pitilessly cut the air erratic
Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love,
And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic —
Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove.
But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey!
And Jules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny.
XLVII.
This was one secret of his popularity,
Men hate a manner colder than their own,
And ladies — bless their hearts! love chaste hilarity
Better than sentiment — if truth were known!
And Jules had one more slight peculiarity —
He'd little “approbativeness” — or none —
And what the critics said concern'd him little —
Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual.
XLVIII.
Critics, I say — of course he was in print —
“Poems,” of course — of course “anonymous” —
Of course he found a publisher by dint
Of search most diligent, and far more fuss
Than chemists make in melting you a flint.
Since that experiment he reckons plus
Better manure than minus for his bays —
In short, seeks immortality — “that pays.”
XLIX.
He writes in prose — the public like it better.
Well — let the public! You may take a poet,
And he shall write his grandmother a letter,
And, if he's any thing but rhyme — he'll show it
Prose may be poetry, without its fetter,
And be it pun or pathos, high or low wit,
The thread will show its gold, however twisted —
(I wish the public flatter'd me that this did!)
L.
No doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels.
I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so,
Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's —
(That is my Sunday reading — so I know,)
Yet there's Childe Harold — excellent good travels —
And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe!
But tho' a clever verse-r makes a prose-r,
About the vice-versa, I don't know, sir!
LI.
Verser 's a better word than versifier,
(Unless 'tis verse on fire, you mean to say,)
And I've long thought there's something to desire
In poet's nomenclature, by the way.
It sounds but queer to laud “the well-known lyre” —
Call a dog “poet!” he will run away —
And “songster,” “rhymester,” “bard,” and “poetaster,”
Are customers they're shy of at the Astor.
LII.
A “scribbler's” is a skittish reputation,
And weighs a man down like a hod of mortar.
Commend a suitor's wit, imagination —
The merchant may think of him for his daughter;
But say that “he writes poetry” — — n!
Her “Pa” would rather throw her in the water!
And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove,
Their bills stand all at pa, they much above!
LIII.
Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses;
And sometimes did, “forever!” — (for a week!)
He found for time so many other uses.
His superfluity was his physique;
And exercise, if violent, induces
Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek;
And, (tho' details are neither here nor there,)
Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair;
LIV.
Particularly that of breaking horses.
The rate of circulation in the blood,
Best suited to the meditative forces,
Is quite as far from mercury as mud —
That of the starry, not the racing-courses.
No man can trim his style mid fire and flood,
Nor in a passion, nor just after marriage;
And, as to Cæsar's writing in his carriage,
LV.
Credat Judæus! Thought is free and easy;
But language, unless wrought with labor limæ,
Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye!
The bee makes honey, but his toil is thymy,
And nothing is well done until it tease ye;
(Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he!)
Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking,
Tho' monstrous fun, was not a poet's making.
LVI.
True — some drink up to composition's glow;
Some talk up to it — vide Neckar's daughter!
But when the temp'rature's a fourth too low,
Of course you make up the deficient quarter!
Like Byron's atmosphere, which, chemists know
Required hydrogen — (more gin and water.)
And Jules's sanguine hurnor was too high,
So, of the bottle he had need be shy!
859
LVII.
And of society, which made him thin
With fret and fever, and of sunny sky —
Father of idleness, the poet's sin!
(John Bull should be industrious, by the by,
If clouds without concentrate thought within,)
In short, the lad could fag — (I mean soar high) —
Only by habits, which (if Heaven let her choose)
His mother would bequeath as Christian virtues!
LVIII.
Now men have oft been liken'd unto streams;
(And, truly, both are prone to run down hill,
And seldom brawl when dry, or so it seems!)
And Jules, when he had brooded, long and still,
At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams,
Felt suddenly his veins with frenzy fill;
And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force,
Ruthlessly rode — if he could find a horse.
LIX.
Yes, sir — he had his freshets like a river,
And horses were his passion — so he rode,
When he his prison'd spirits would deliver,
As if he fled from — some man whom he owed —
And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver
Of the young steed in terror first bestrode!
Thrilling as inspiration the delay —
The arrowy spring — the fiery flight away!
LX.
Such riding galls the Muses, (tho' we know
Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,)
But I'd a mind by these details to show
What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky.
This hint to his biographer I throw —
In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey!
Tho' not at all to imitate Apollo!
Horse him as well, he'd beat that dabster hollow!
LXI.
'Tis one of the proprieties of story
To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage;
And therefore I have tried to lay before ye
The qualities of Jules's second age.
It should wind up with some memento mori —
But we'll defer that till we draw the sage.
The moral's the last thing, (I say with pain,)
And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane.
LXII.
The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy,
And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired
The summer palace of Rospigliosi,
To get the sun as well as be retired.
You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see —
That's if you care to have your fancy fired —
It's out of Rome — it strikes me on a steep hill —
A sort of place to go to with nice people.
LXIII.
It looks affectionate, with all its splendor —
As loveable as ever look'd a nest;
A palace I protest, that makes you tender,
And long for — fol de rol, and all the rest.
Guido's Aurora's there — you couldn't mend her;
And Samson, by Caracci — not his best;
But pictures, I can talk of to the million —
To you, I'll just describe one small pavilion.
LXIV.
It's in the garden just below the palace;
I think, upon the second terrace — no —
The first — yes, 'tis the first — the orange alleys
Lead from the first flight down — precisely so!
Well — half-way is a fountain, where, with malice
In all his looks, a Cupid — 'hem! you know
You needn't notice that — you hurry by,
And lo! a fairy structure fills your eye.
LXV.
A crescent colonnade folds in the sun,
To keep it for the wooing South wind only —
A thing I wonder is not oftener done,
(The crescent, not the wooing — that's my own lie,)
For there are months, and January's one,
When winds are chill, and life in-doors gets lonely,
And one quite longs, if wind would keep away,
To sing i' the sunshine, like old King René.
LXVI.
The columns are of marble, white as light:
The structure low, yet airy, and the floor
A tesselated pavement, curious quite, —
Of the same fashion in and out of door.
The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight,
Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er,
And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) —
So the pavilion had an air of comfort.
LXVII.
“The frescoes on the ceiling really breathe,”
The guide-books say. Of course they really see:
And, as I tell you what went on beneath,
Of course those naked goddesses told me.
They saw two rows of dazzling English teeth,
Employ'd, each morn, on English “toast and tea;”
And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes,
But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise.
LXVIII.
The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung
Low to the soft eye, and, so still they lay,
Jules knew a tear was hid their threads among,
And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away.
The kindly greeting trembled on her tongue,
The hand's faint pressure chill'd his touch like clay,
And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing,
With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging.
LXIX.
Oh it is darkness to lose love! — howe'er
We little prized the fond heart — fond no more!
The bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air!
Unrecognized are angels, till they soar!
And few so rich they may not well beware
Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore!
Yet — hast thou love too poor for thy possessing? —
Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing
LXX.
You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane
Loved Mr. Jules. (He's Mr. now — not Master!)
The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain;
And possibly I should have made it last a
Whole Canto, more or less — but I'll explain.
Lumping the sentiment one gets on faster!
Tho' it's in narrative, an art quite subtle,
To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle.
LXXI.
Good “characters” in tales are “well brought up” —
(Tho', by this rule, my Countess Pasibleu
Is a bad character — yet, just to sup,
I much prefer her house to a church pew — )
But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup, —
So much a week, — what is a man to do?
“'Tis wish'd that if a story you begin, you'd
Make separate scenes of each `to be continued.'”
LXXII.
So writes plain “Jonathan,” who tills my brains
With view to crop — (the seed being ready money — )
And if the “small lot system” bring him gains,
He has a right to fence off grave from funny —
Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes,
And, I must own, where one has room to run, he
Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin,
So now I'll go to lumping it again!
And of society, which made him thin
With fret and fever, and of sunny sky —
Father of idleness, the poet's sin!
(John Bull should be industrious, by the by,
If clouds without concentrate thought within,)
In short, the lad could fag — (I mean soar high) —
Only by habits, which (if Heaven let her choose)
His mother would bequeath as Christian virtues!
LVIII.
Now men have oft been liken'd unto streams;
(And, truly, both are prone to run down hill,
And seldom brawl when dry, or so it seems!)
And Jules, when he had brooded, long and still,
At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams,
Felt suddenly his veins with frenzy fill;
And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force,
Ruthlessly rode — if he could find a horse.
LIX.
Yes, sir — he had his freshets like a river,
And horses were his passion — so he rode,
When he his prison'd spirits would deliver,
As if he fled from — some man whom he owed —
And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver
Of the young steed in terror first bestrode!
Thrilling as inspiration the delay —
The arrowy spring — the fiery flight away!
LX.
Such riding galls the Muses, (tho' we know
Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,)
But I'd a mind by these details to show
What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky.
This hint to his biographer I throw —
In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey!
Tho' not at all to imitate Apollo!
Horse him as well, he'd beat that dabster hollow!
LXI.
'Tis one of the proprieties of story
To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage;
And therefore I have tried to lay before ye
The qualities of Jules's second age.
It should wind up with some memento mori —
But we'll defer that till we draw the sage.
The moral's the last thing, (I say with pain,)
And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane.
LXII.
The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy,
And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired
The summer palace of Rospigliosi,
To get the sun as well as be retired.
You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see —
That's if you care to have your fancy fired —
It's out of Rome — it strikes me on a steep hill —
A sort of place to go to with nice people.
LXIII.
It looks affectionate, with all its splendor —
As loveable as ever look'd a nest;
A palace I protest, that makes you tender,
And long for — fol de rol, and all the rest.
Guido's Aurora's there — you couldn't mend her;
And Samson, by Caracci — not his best;
But pictures, I can talk of to the million —
To you, I'll just describe one small pavilion.
LXIV.
It's in the garden just below the palace;
I think, upon the second terrace — no —
The first — yes, 'tis the first — the orange alleys
Lead from the first flight down — precisely so!
Well — half-way is a fountain, where, with malice
In all his looks, a Cupid — 'hem! you know
You needn't notice that — you hurry by,
And lo! a fairy structure fills your eye.
LXV.
A crescent colonnade folds in the sun,
To keep it for the wooing South wind only —
A thing I wonder is not oftener done,
(The crescent, not the wooing — that's my own lie,)
For there are months, and January's one,
When winds are chill, and life in-doors gets lonely,
And one quite longs, if wind would keep away,
To sing i' the sunshine, like old King René.
LXVI.
The columns are of marble, white as light:
The structure low, yet airy, and the floor
A tesselated pavement, curious quite, —
Of the same fashion in and out of door.
The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight,
Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er,
And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) —
So the pavilion had an air of comfort.
LXVII.
“The frescoes on the ceiling really breathe,”
The guide-books say. Of course they really see:
And, as I tell you what went on beneath,
Of course those naked goddesses told me.
They saw two rows of dazzling English teeth,
Employ'd, each morn, on English “toast and tea;”
And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes,
But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise.
LXVIII.
The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung
Low to the soft eye, and, so still they lay,
Jules knew a tear was hid their threads among,
And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away.
The kindly greeting trembled on her tongue,
The hand's faint pressure chill'd his touch like clay,
And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing,
With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging.
LXIX.
Oh it is darkness to lose love! — howe'er
We little prized the fond heart — fond no more!
The bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air!
Unrecognized are angels, till they soar!
And few so rich they may not well beware
Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore!
Yet — hast thou love too poor for thy possessing? —
Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing
LXX.
You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane
Loved Mr. Jules. (He's Mr. now — not Master!)
The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain;
And possibly I should have made it last a
Whole Canto, more or less — but I'll explain.
Lumping the sentiment one gets on faster!
Tho' it's in narrative, an art quite subtle,
To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle.
LXXI.
Good “characters” in tales are “well brought up” —
(Tho', by this rule, my Countess Pasibleu
Is a bad character — yet, just to sup,
I much prefer her house to a church pew — )
But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup, —
So much a week, — what is a man to do?
“'Tis wish'd that if a story you begin, you'd
Make separate scenes of each `to be continued.'”
LXXII.
So writes plain “Jonathan,” who tills my brains
With view to crop — (the seed being ready money — )
And if the “small lot system” bring him gains,
He has a right to fence off grave from funny —
Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes,
And, I must own, where one has room to run, he
Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin,
So now I'll go to lumping it again!
860
LXXIII.
“Love grows, by what” it gives to feed another,
And not by what “it feeds on.” 'Tis divine,
If any thing's divine besides the mother
Whose breast, self-blessing, is its holy sign.
Much better than a sister loves a brother
The Lady Jane loved Jules, and “line by line,
Precept by precept,” furnish'd him advice;
Also much other stuff he thought more nice.
LXXIV.
She got him into sundry pleasant clubs,
By pains that women can take, tho' but few will!
She made most of him when he got most rubs;
And once, in an inevitable duel,
She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs —
But not to hinder! Faith! she was a jewel!
I wish the star all manner of festivity
That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity!
LXXV.
All sorts of enviable invitations,
Tickets, and privileges, got she him;
Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience,
(Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) —
Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations,
And found for him in church the psalm and hymn;
Sent to his “den” some things not found in Daniel's,
And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels.
LXXVI.
To set him down, upon her way chez elle,
She stay'd unreasonably late at parties;
To introduce him to a waltzing belle
She sometimes made a cessio dignitatis;
And one kind office more that I must tell —
She sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is
If charity like this you find a sin in,)
In church-time, privately, to air his linen.
LXXVII.
Was Jules ungrateful? No! Was he obtuse?
Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing
With tenderness, like water in a sluice, —
Like the sun's shining, — like the breeze's blowing, —
And fancy thanking them was not much use?
Had he the luck of intimately knowing
Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer?
Had he a “friend” sub rosa? No, sir! Fie, sir?
LXXVIII.
Then why neglect her? Having said he did,
I will explain, as Brutus did his stab, —
(Tho' by my neighbors I'm already chid
For getting on so very like a crab) —
Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid,
Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab —
A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages,
And other ties depend on keeping carriages.
LXXIX.
Without a carriage men should have no card,
Nor “owe a call” at all — except for love.
And friends who need that you the “lean earth lard”
To give their memories a pasteboard shove,
On gentlemen a-foot bear rather hard!
It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove!
To walk next day half way to Massachusett
And leave your name — on ladies that won't use it.
LXXX.
It really should be taught in infant schools
That the majority means men, not dollars;
And, therefore, that, to let the rich make rules,
Is silly in “poor pretty little scholars.”
And this you see is apropos of Jules,
Who call'd as frequently as richer callers
While he'd a cab; — but courtesy's half horse —
A secret those who ride keep snug, of course.
LXXXI.
I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man,)
Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane;
And, at the start, it was my settled plan,
(Tho' I've lost sight of it, I see with pain,)
To show how moderate attentions can,
If once she love, a woman's heart retain
True love is weak and humble, tho' so brittle;
And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little!
LXXXII.
For instance — Jules's every day routine
Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early;
A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green:
(Where, if address'd, he was extremely surly;)
Five minutes at the club, perhaps fifteen;
Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he
Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square,
Where he walk'd in, with quite a household air
LXXXIII.
And here he pass'd an hour — or two, or three —
Just as it served his purpose or his whim;
And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be
Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim —
Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity,
Dress'd ever sumptuously there — for him!
With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy,
Pampering fondly his reluctant eye.
LXXXIV.
And on the silken cushions at her feet
He daily dream'd these morning hours away,
Troubling himself but little to be sweet.
Poets are fond of revery, they say,
But not with ladies whom they rarely meet.
And, if you love one, madam, (as you may!)
And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer,
Be careful of all manner of toujours!
LXXXV.
“Toujours perdrix,” snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit
Offends the simplest palate, it appears,
And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to blab it,)
It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, tears,
The fancy mortally abhors a habit!
(Not that which Seraphina's bust inspheres!)
E'en one-tuned music-boxes breed satiety,
Unless you keep of them a great variety.
LXXXVI.
Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East,
And brought new milk and morning paper daily;
The “yield,” of both the Editor and beast,
Great mysteries, unsolved by Brown or Paley;
But Jules — not plagued about it in the least —
Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily;
And Lady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow
Grew to be like the Editor and cow.
LXXXVII.
I see you understand it. One may dash on
A color here — stroke there — and lo! the story!
And, speaking morally, this outline fashion
Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory.
I've sketch'd for you a deep and tranquil passion
Kindled while nursing up a bard for glory;
And, having whisk'd you for that end to London,
Let's back to Italy, and see it undone.
LXXXVIII.
Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi —
Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall —
The day delicious and the room quite cozy —
And yet were there two bosoms full of gall!
So lurks the thorn in paths long soft and rosy!
Jules was not one whom trifles could appal,
But few things will make creep the lion's mane
Like ladies in a miff who won't explain!
“Love grows, by what” it gives to feed another,
And not by what “it feeds on.” 'Tis divine,
If any thing's divine besides the mother
Whose breast, self-blessing, is its holy sign.
Much better than a sister loves a brother
The Lady Jane loved Jules, and “line by line,
Precept by precept,” furnish'd him advice;
Also much other stuff he thought more nice.
LXXIV.
She got him into sundry pleasant clubs,
By pains that women can take, tho' but few will!
She made most of him when he got most rubs;
And once, in an inevitable duel,
She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs —
But not to hinder! Faith! she was a jewel!
I wish the star all manner of festivity
That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity!
LXXV.
All sorts of enviable invitations,
Tickets, and privileges, got she him;
Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience,
(Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) —
Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations,
And found for him in church the psalm and hymn;
Sent to his “den” some things not found in Daniel's,
And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels.
LXXVI.
To set him down, upon her way chez elle,
She stay'd unreasonably late at parties;
To introduce him to a waltzing belle
She sometimes made a cessio dignitatis;
And one kind office more that I must tell —
She sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is
If charity like this you find a sin in,)
In church-time, privately, to air his linen.
LXXVII.
Was Jules ungrateful? No! Was he obtuse?
Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing
With tenderness, like water in a sluice, —
Like the sun's shining, — like the breeze's blowing, —
And fancy thanking them was not much use?
Had he the luck of intimately knowing
Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer?
Had he a “friend” sub rosa? No, sir! Fie, sir?
LXXVIII.
Then why neglect her? Having said he did,
I will explain, as Brutus did his stab, —
(Tho' by my neighbors I'm already chid
For getting on so very like a crab) —
Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid,
Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab —
A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages,
And other ties depend on keeping carriages.
LXXIX.
Without a carriage men should have no card,
Nor “owe a call” at all — except for love.
And friends who need that you the “lean earth lard”
To give their memories a pasteboard shove,
On gentlemen a-foot bear rather hard!
It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove!
To walk next day half way to Massachusett
And leave your name — on ladies that won't use it.
LXXX.
It really should be taught in infant schools
That the majority means men, not dollars;
And, therefore, that, to let the rich make rules,
Is silly in “poor pretty little scholars.”
And this you see is apropos of Jules,
Who call'd as frequently as richer callers
While he'd a cab; — but courtesy's half horse —
A secret those who ride keep snug, of course.
LXXXI.
I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man,)
Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane;
And, at the start, it was my settled plan,
(Tho' I've lost sight of it, I see with pain,)
To show how moderate attentions can,
If once she love, a woman's heart retain
True love is weak and humble, tho' so brittle;
And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little!
LXXXII.
For instance — Jules's every day routine
Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early;
A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green:
(Where, if address'd, he was extremely surly;)
Five minutes at the club, perhaps fifteen;
Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he
Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square,
Where he walk'd in, with quite a household air
LXXXIII.
And here he pass'd an hour — or two, or three —
Just as it served his purpose or his whim;
And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be
Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim —
Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity,
Dress'd ever sumptuously there — for him!
With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy,
Pampering fondly his reluctant eye.
LXXXIV.
And on the silken cushions at her feet
He daily dream'd these morning hours away,
Troubling himself but little to be sweet.
Poets are fond of revery, they say,
But not with ladies whom they rarely meet.
And, if you love one, madam, (as you may!)
And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer,
Be careful of all manner of toujours!
LXXXV.
“Toujours perdrix,” snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit
Offends the simplest palate, it appears,
And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to blab it,)
It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, tears,
The fancy mortally abhors a habit!
(Not that which Seraphina's bust inspheres!)
E'en one-tuned music-boxes breed satiety,
Unless you keep of them a great variety.
LXXXVI.
Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East,
And brought new milk and morning paper daily;
The “yield,” of both the Editor and beast,
Great mysteries, unsolved by Brown or Paley;
But Jules — not plagued about it in the least —
Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily;
And Lady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow
Grew to be like the Editor and cow.
LXXXVII.
I see you understand it. One may dash on
A color here — stroke there — and lo! the story!
And, speaking morally, this outline fashion
Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory.
I've sketch'd for you a deep and tranquil passion
Kindled while nursing up a bard for glory;
And, having whisk'd you for that end to London,
Let's back to Italy, and see it undone.
LXXXVIII.
Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi —
Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall —
The day delicious and the room quite cozy —
And yet were there two bosoms full of gall!
So lurks the thorn in paths long soft and rosy!
Jules was not one whom trifles could appal,
But few things will make creep the lion's mane
Like ladies in a miff who won't explain!
861
LXXXIX.
Now I have seen a hadji and a cadi —
Have sojourn'd among strangers, oft and long —
Have known most sorts of women, fair and shady,
And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng —
But, in my life, I never saw a lady
Who had, the least, the air of being wrong!
The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil
We never caught — 'twas she who saw the devil!
XC.
In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners —
For what was Adam to the “morning star?”
She would take precedence — if sins were dinners,
And hence that self-assured “de haut en bas”
So unattainable by men, as sinners.
Of course, she plays the devil in a fracas —
Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster,
And argues like her grandmother's old master!
XCI.
And in proportion as the angel fades —
As love departs — the crest of woman rises —
Even in passion's softer, lighter shades,
With aristocracy's well-bred disguises;
For, with no tragic fury, no tirades,
A lady looks a man into a crisis!
And, to 'most any animal carnivorous
Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us!
XCII.
Jules had one thing particular to say,
The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there,
With twenty times the mind to be away.
Uncomfortable seem'd the stuff'd arm-chair
In which the Earl would sometimes pass the day;
And there was something Roman in the air;
For every effort to express his errand
Ended in “um!” — as 'twere a Latin gerund.
XCIII.
He had received a little billet-doux
The night before — as plain as A B C —
(I mean, it would appear as plain to you,
Tho' very full of meaning you'll agree) —
Informing him that by advice quite new
The Earl was going now to try the sea;
And begging him to have his passport vised
For Venice, by Bologna — if he pleased!
XCIV.
Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's
The gentle missive elegantly ran —
A sort of note the writer don't care who sees,
For you may pick a flaw in't if you can —
But yet a stern experimentum crucis,
Quite in the style of Metternich, or Van, —
And meant — without more flummery or fuss —
Stay with your Marchioness — or come with us!
XCV.
Here was to be “a parting such as wrings [stay!
The blood from out young hearts” — for Jules would
The bird she took unfledged had got its wings,
And, though its cage be gold, it must away!
But this, and similar high-color'd things,
Refinement makes it difficult to say;
For, higher “high life” is, (this side an attic,)
The more it shrinks from all that looks dramatic.
XCVI.
Hence, words grow cold as agony grows hot,
'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades;
And tho' the truth but coldly end the plot,
(There really is no pathos for you, ladies!)
Jules cast the die with, simply “I think not!”
And her few words were guarded as he made his;
For rank has one cold law of Moloch's making —
Death, before outcry, while the heart is breaking!
XCVII.
She could not tell that boy how hot the tear
That seem'd within her eyeball to have died —
She could not tell him her exalted sphere
Had not a hope his boyish love beside:
The grave of anguish is a human ear —
Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride!
And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonely,
With her heart lock'd on that dumb sorrow only!
XCVIII.
Calm, in her “pride of place,” moves Lady Jane —
Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold —
So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain
Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd.
She loved too late to dream of love again,
And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old
A star, on which a spirit had alighted
Once, in all time, were like a life so blighted!
XCIX.
So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread
Which we have follow'd in its rosy weaving;
Yet merrily, still on, the shuttle sped.
Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving,
But, that an angel from his path had fled,
He was not long in mournfully believing.
And “angel watch and ward” had fled with her —
For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err!
C.
Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings,
Or so some pleasant allegory goes,)
And Jules at many a bright light burnt his wings.
His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows;
But, while one passion best in metre rings,
Another is best told in lucid prose.
As to the marchioness, I've half a plan, sir!
To limn her in the quaint Spenserian stanza.
END.
To the Reader.
And now, dear reader! as a brick may be
A sample of a house — a bit of glass
Of a broad mirror — it has seem'd to me
These fragments for a tale may shift to pass.
(I am a poet much cut up, pardie!)
But “shorts” is poor “to running loose to grass.”
Where there's a meadow to range freely over,
You pick to please you — timothy or clover.
Without the slightest hint at transmigration,
I wish hereafter we may meet in calf!
That you may read me with some variation — [laugh
This when you're moody — that when you would
In that case, I may swell this true narration,
And blow off here and there a speech of chaff.
I trust you think, that, were there more 'twere better, or
If cetera desunt, decent were the cetera!
P. S. I really had forgotten quite
To say to you, from Countess Pasibleu —
(Dying, 'tis thought, but quite too ill to write) —
Her Ladyship's best compliments to you,
And she's toujours chez elte on Friday night,
(Buckingham Crescent, May Fair, No. 2.)
This, (as her written missive would have said,)
Always in case her Ladyship's not dead.
Now I have seen a hadji and a cadi —
Have sojourn'd among strangers, oft and long —
Have known most sorts of women, fair and shady,
And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng —
But, in my life, I never saw a lady
Who had, the least, the air of being wrong!
The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil
We never caught — 'twas she who saw the devil!
XC.
In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners —
For what was Adam to the “morning star?”
She would take precedence — if sins were dinners,
And hence that self-assured “de haut en bas”
So unattainable by men, as sinners.
Of course, she plays the devil in a fracas —
Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster,
And argues like her grandmother's old master!
XCI.
And in proportion as the angel fades —
As love departs — the crest of woman rises —
Even in passion's softer, lighter shades,
With aristocracy's well-bred disguises;
For, with no tragic fury, no tirades,
A lady looks a man into a crisis!
And, to 'most any animal carnivorous
Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us!
XCII.
Jules had one thing particular to say,
The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there,
With twenty times the mind to be away.
Uncomfortable seem'd the stuff'd arm-chair
In which the Earl would sometimes pass the day;
And there was something Roman in the air;
For every effort to express his errand
Ended in “um!” — as 'twere a Latin gerund.
XCIII.
He had received a little billet-doux
The night before — as plain as A B C —
(I mean, it would appear as plain to you,
Tho' very full of meaning you'll agree) —
Informing him that by advice quite new
The Earl was going now to try the sea;
And begging him to have his passport vised
For Venice, by Bologna — if he pleased!
XCIV.
Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's
The gentle missive elegantly ran —
A sort of note the writer don't care who sees,
For you may pick a flaw in't if you can —
But yet a stern experimentum crucis,
Quite in the style of Metternich, or Van, —
And meant — without more flummery or fuss —
Stay with your Marchioness — or come with us!
XCV.
Here was to be “a parting such as wrings [stay!
The blood from out young hearts” — for Jules would
The bird she took unfledged had got its wings,
And, though its cage be gold, it must away!
But this, and similar high-color'd things,
Refinement makes it difficult to say;
For, higher “high life” is, (this side an attic,)
The more it shrinks from all that looks dramatic.
XCVI.
Hence, words grow cold as agony grows hot,
'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades;
And tho' the truth but coldly end the plot,
(There really is no pathos for you, ladies!)
Jules cast the die with, simply “I think not!”
And her few words were guarded as he made his;
For rank has one cold law of Moloch's making —
Death, before outcry, while the heart is breaking!
XCVII.
She could not tell that boy how hot the tear
That seem'd within her eyeball to have died —
She could not tell him her exalted sphere
Had not a hope his boyish love beside:
The grave of anguish is a human ear —
Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride!
And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonely,
With her heart lock'd on that dumb sorrow only!
XCVIII.
Calm, in her “pride of place,” moves Lady Jane —
Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold —
So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain
Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd.
She loved too late to dream of love again,
And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old
A star, on which a spirit had alighted
Once, in all time, were like a life so blighted!
XCIX.
So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread
Which we have follow'd in its rosy weaving;
Yet merrily, still on, the shuttle sped.
Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving,
But, that an angel from his path had fled,
He was not long in mournfully believing.
And “angel watch and ward” had fled with her —
For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err!
C.
Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings,
Or so some pleasant allegory goes,)
And Jules at many a bright light burnt his wings.
His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows;
But, while one passion best in metre rings,
Another is best told in lucid prose.
As to the marchioness, I've half a plan, sir!
To limn her in the quaint Spenserian stanza.
END.
To the Reader.
And now, dear reader! as a brick may be
A sample of a house — a bit of glass
Of a broad mirror — it has seem'd to me
These fragments for a tale may shift to pass.
(I am a poet much cut up, pardie!)
But “shorts” is poor “to running loose to grass.”
Where there's a meadow to range freely over,
You pick to please you — timothy or clover.
Without the slightest hint at transmigration,
I wish hereafter we may meet in calf!
That you may read me with some variation — [laugh
This when you're moody — that when you would
In that case, I may swell this true narration,
And blow off here and there a speech of chaff.
I trust you think, that, were there more 'twere better, or
If cetera desunt, decent were the cetera!
P. S. I really had forgotten quite
To say to you, from Countess Pasibleu —
(Dying, 'tis thought, but quite too ill to write) —
Her Ladyship's best compliments to you,
And she's toujours chez elte on Friday night,
(Buckingham Crescent, May Fair, No. 2.)
This, (as her written missive would have said,)
Always in case her Ladyship's not dead.
AN APOLOGY
For avoiding, after long separation, a woman once loved.
See me no more on earth, I pray,
Thy picture, in my memory now,0
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May!
Few were as beautiful as thou!
Thy picture, in my memory now,0
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May!
Few were as beautiful as thou!
862
And still I see that willowy form —
And still that cheek like roses dyed —
And still that dark eye, deep and warm —
Thy look of love — thy step of pride! —
Thy memory is a star to me,
More bright as day-beams fade and flee.
But thou, indeed! — Ah! years have fled,
And thou, like others, changed the while —
For joy upon the lip lies dead
If pain but cloud the sunny smile!
And care will make the roses pale,
And tears will soil the lily's whiteness,
And ere life's lamp begins to fail
The eye forgets its trick of brightness!
Look for the rose of dawn at noon,
And weep for beauty — lost as soon!
Cold words that hide the envious thought!
I could not bear thy face to see —
But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought
A change in features dear to me!
No! had it been my lot to share
The fragrance of the flower decay'd —
If I had borne but half the care
That on thy brow its burden laid —
If in my love thou'dst burn'd away,
The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day!
And still that cheek like roses dyed —
And still that dark eye, deep and warm —
Thy look of love — thy step of pride! —
Thy memory is a star to me,
More bright as day-beams fade and flee.
But thou, indeed! — Ah! years have fled,
And thou, like others, changed the while —
For joy upon the lip lies dead
If pain but cloud the sunny smile!
And care will make the roses pale,
And tears will soil the lily's whiteness,
And ere life's lamp begins to fail
The eye forgets its trick of brightness!
Look for the rose of dawn at noon,
And weep for beauty — lost as soon!
Cold words that hide the envious thought!
I could not bear thy face to see —
But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought
A change in features dear to me!
No! had it been my lot to share
The fragrance of the flower decay'd —
If I had borne but half the care
That on thy brow its burden laid —
If in my love thou'dst burn'd away,
The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day!
TO HELEN IN A HUFF.
Nay, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this —
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!
In a life as soon over as this —
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!
CITY LYRICS.
Argument. — The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart
up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices.
He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young
woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent
refreshment.
Come out, love — the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting —
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that “coolness” entices,
And love is no better for chilling —
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us —
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilachs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm —
When — pest! — that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Tho' sweet is I scream[1] when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high) —
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting —
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that “coolness” entices,
And love is no better for chilling —
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us —
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilachs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm —
When — pest! — that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Tho' sweet is I scream[1] when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high) —
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH
BLACK BUTTONS.
I know not who thou art, oh, lovely one!
Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful —
Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus! Ah me!
The world is full of meetings such as this —
A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply —
And sudden partings after! We may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now —
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I,
Lone, in the Waverley! Oh, life of pain!
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell —
Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea —
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on! I dare not feast mine eye!
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to fling to thee my innocent card —
Not knowing thy papa!
Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air.
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth —
Nay — may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount — yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, —
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, “She's not genteel!”
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of “good society” the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel —
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain —
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful —
Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus! Ah me!
The world is full of meetings such as this —
A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply —
And sudden partings after! We may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now —
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I,
Lone, in the Waverley! Oh, life of pain!
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell —
Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea —
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on! I dare not feast mine eye!
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to fling to thee my innocent card —
Not knowing thy papa!
Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air.
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth —
Nay — may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount — yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, —
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, “She's not genteel!”
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of “good society” the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel —
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain —
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
863
THE LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS,
Whom I helped into the Omnibus.
I know her not! Her hand has been in mine,
And the warm pressure of her taper arm
Has thrill'd upon my fingers, and the hem
Of her white dress has lain upon my feet,
Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds,
Was kindled to a fever! I, to her,
Am but the undistinguishable leaf
Blown by upon the breeze — yet I have sat,
And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes,
(Close as a lover in his hour of bliss,
And steadfastly as look the twin stars down
Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed!
And I have felt from out its gate of pearl
Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat
Dreaming away the moments, I have tried
To count the long dark lashes in the fringe
Of her bewildering eyes! The kerchief sweet
That enviably visits her red lip
Has slumber'd, while she held it, on my knee, —
And her small foot has crept between mine own —
And yet, she knows me not!
Now, thanks to heaven
For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping —
Wealth that the miser cannot hide away!
Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower —
They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze!
Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind —
It pours its light on every passing eye!
And he who on this beauty sets his name —
Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone
Such loveliness was first of angels born —
Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear,
That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye,
And, unrebuked, may worship her in song —
Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way,
Hath set bright lamps with loveliness alight —
And all may in their guiding beams rejoice;
But he — as 'twere a watcher by a lamp —
Guards but this bright one's shining.
I know her not! Her hand has been in mine,
And the warm pressure of her taper arm
Has thrill'd upon my fingers, and the hem
Of her white dress has lain upon my feet,
Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds,
Was kindled to a fever! I, to her,
Am but the undistinguishable leaf
Blown by upon the breeze — yet I have sat,
And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes,
(Close as a lover in his hour of bliss,
And steadfastly as look the twin stars down
Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed!
And I have felt from out its gate of pearl
Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat
Dreaming away the moments, I have tried
To count the long dark lashes in the fringe
Of her bewildering eyes! The kerchief sweet
That enviably visits her red lip
Has slumber'd, while she held it, on my knee, —
And her small foot has crept between mine own —
And yet, she knows me not!
Now, thanks to heaven
For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping —
Wealth that the miser cannot hide away!
Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower —
They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze!
Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind —
It pours its light on every passing eye!
And he who on this beauty sets his name —
Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone
Such loveliness was first of angels born —
Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear,
That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye,
And, unrebuked, may worship her in song —
Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way,
Hath set bright lamps with loveliness alight —
And all may in their guiding beams rejoice;
But he — as 'twere a watcher by a lamp —
Guards but this bright one's shining.
THE WHITE CHIP HAT.
I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter —
I think near the corner of Murray —
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a dutchess's doing —
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing —
Lovely thing!
Surprising! — one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious —
Chip hat without flower or feather —
Well gloved, and enchantingly boddiced-
Her waist like the cup of a lily —
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the sancy and silly —
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in straining one's tether —
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney —
But I said a bad word — for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney —
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd —
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses —
And the star that “swaps” light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes! —
Not the thing!
When late for the Post with a letter —
I think near the corner of Murray —
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a dutchess's doing —
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing —
Lovely thing!
Surprising! — one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious —
Chip hat without flower or feather —
Well gloved, and enchantingly boddiced-
Her waist like the cup of a lily —
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the sancy and silly —
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in straining one's tether —
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney —
But I said a bad word — for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney —
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd —
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses —
And the star that “swaps” light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes! —
Not the thing!
YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU.
As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair —
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair —
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less, —
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars —
So I — a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love —
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That veil of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window — lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringed veil,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringed window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair —
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair —
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less, —
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars —
So I — a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love —
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That veil of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window — lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringed veil,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringed window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
UNSEEN SPIRITS.
The shadows lay along Broadway —
'Twas near the twilight-tide —
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair —
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true —
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo —
But honor'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair —
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail —
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way! —
But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is curst alway!
'Twas near the twilight-tide —
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair —
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true —
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo —
But honor'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair —
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail —
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way! —
But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is curst alway!
864
LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine —
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And mill maids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier —
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies —
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease —
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
And bowers of trellised vine —
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And mill maids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier —
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies —
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease —
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
THE DECLARATION.
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden — and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and looked
Earnestly on me — She had been asleep!
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden — and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and looked
Earnestly on me — She had been asleep!
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